


I'll Carry Your Weight

by divine_twig



Category: The Hobbit (2012), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Developing Relationship, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Pre-Slash, Protectiveness, Slash, Slow Build
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-10
Updated: 2013-07-02
Packaged: 2017-11-24 09:05:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 53,108
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/632717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/divine_twig/pseuds/divine_twig
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thorin does not need a burdensome hobbit in the Company, no matter what the wizard says.  Baggins will slow them down and will get them all killed.  Thorin has no choice but to put up with the halfling, who slowly starts to grow on him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BrienneofThrace](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BrienneofThrace/gifts).



> This is my first fanfic, so feedback would be appreciated!

Thorin thought, bitterly, that it might as well be Gandalf leading his Company. He had bowed to so many of the wizard’s demands. He had heeded the wizard’s advice. He had consented to meeting the hobbit. Grudgingly. But this last indignity was almost too much to bear. They hardly needed this Baggins fellow. He had few skills to offer the Company. He was a middle-aged, comfort-loving bachelor, overweight and untried. He had soft hands. Thorin could see already that the hobbit would be an insufferable burden. The only points in Baggins’ favor were that thirteen was an unlucky number – and that was a shaky point, as Gandalf could have been considered the fourteenth member of the company – and that the dwarfs might have need of a thief, if they ever reached the Mountain.

Anyway, it wasn’t his concern, Thorin thought as he looked out across the starlit Shire. The hobbit would not turn up. After his nervous attack, after he resolutely declared that he absolutely would not join the Company, the dwarfs and Gandalf left Baggins and went along on their way. And that was quite all right with Thorin Oakenshield. In fact, he was confident that their venture would proceed much more smoothly without Mr. Baggins’ assistance.

It was a calm night, quiet and peaceful in a foreign, grassy sort of way. Thorin was not truly comfortable in the Shire. So open and vulnerable. He couldn’t credit these hobbits with much sense if this was how they chose to live. Small wonder that Baggins had been overcome by the thought of a dragon – he’d probably lived his entire life in this green-and-gold countryside. He was no warrior, and he had no place in this venture.

Ori started violently when Thorin came to stand next to him. The young dwarf was inexperienced, little more than an adventurous child, but a good lad. “Majesty,” he said. “Trouble sleeping?”

“Mm. It’s a quiet night.”

“Aye, lovely weather.”

Thorin watched the ponies drowse; one whickered softly, and Gandalf’s horse shifted its weight as though half-asleep. Under a hill somewhere, Baggins was probably stretched out on his big, soft bed, head pillowed on his arm, sleeping deep. Bombur’s snores broke their rhythm and the dwarf shifted in his bedroll. Rest while you can, Thorin thought. They would not find peace like this again soon. And that was perfectly fine with him.

\---

A shout, and Thorin wheeled his pony about, hand automatically going to his axe. It wasn’t orcs, and he settled slightly as Baggins came into view. The halfling was running as fast as his short legs could carry him. He waved the contract in the air like a banner.

“Well, well,” said Bofur. 

Thorin shrugged and grunted in annoyance. It hardly mattered either way, he reminded himself. The hobbit might yet prove useful. He waited with thin patience while Fíli helped Baggins onto one of the pack ponies. Waited while the hobbit dithered and complained – apparently horses made him sneeze. The hobbit sat uncomfortably on the animal’s withers, holding the reins too high and too loose. Thorin glanced back from time to time as they rode. The hobbit’s expression gradually went from uncomfortable to harrowed, and the dwarf felt a measure of malicious amusement, tempered by exasperation. He was a fool, this Baggins. He was a fool to have joined the Company, and Thorin was doubly foolish for having listened to Gandalf’s advice.

“He doesn’t ride, he doesn’t fight, he doesn’t steal,” he heard Oin mutter, voice almost lost in the creak of saddle leather. “Mr. Baggins is a remarkable sort of burglar.”

“Remarkable is the last word I would ever think of using for that hobbit,” Dori replied. 

Thorin agreed completely. 

\---

They camped for the night on the side of a mountain, and built their fire in the flat, stony lee. When the meal was over, Thorin went to stand at the edge of their camp. The solitude helped clear his head after a day of riding among his comrades. The heat of the fire was faint on his back, but the wind carried the dwarfs’ voices to him. A short distance away, the ponies huddled. The night smelled like smoke and pine. The sky was clear; he picked out familiar constellations. It was good weather, and he itched to press on, to push through the low country while their luck held. That luck had lasted longer than he’d expected. No sign of orcs, goblins, elves, or other enemies; no illness, injury, or loss of life or supplies. They were well fed, clean, warm, comfortable. They had been so lucky that it made him anxious. He knew the way of the road. It would not do to become complacent.

Thorin heard something crunch. He half-turned. It was the halfling. The worst rider in Middle-Earth, the one who disliked horses because they made him sneeze. He was patting the pack pony’s neck while she ate an apple from his hand. “Remarkable.” The word sprang to Thorin’s lips. He turned back to study the night sky.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dwarfs make camp at an abandoned farm.

Thorin was not patient. He demanded – deserved – his dwarfs’ unflinching loyalty and courage. He was their king. It was different with Gandalf. A wizard. Not an equal, not exactly, but a respected ally. Thorin trusted his dwarfs and he trusted Gandalf.

He did not trust Bilbo Baggins. For starters, the halfling was child-small, with a beardless face and gentle hands. He carried no weapons. He was apparently ignorant of anything that happened beyond his dear Shire. Completely unaware of the cultures and politics of the wider world. Thorin did not trust Bilbo Baggins. His patience, already at the breaking point, snapped when Gandalf questioned his decision to stay the night at the abandoned farm. They would not go to the elves, not if their lives depended on it, and on this matter Thorin held firm.

It ended with Gandalf storming away – so many of their arguments ended this way, with one or both of them furious and frustrated – and Thorin sent Fíli and Kíli to tend the ponies. The rest of the Company settled around the abandoned farmhouse. Thorin himself sat on a low wall, crumbling and ruined, and watched Oin and Gloin start to build a fire. Baggins was gathering twigs and sticks with Bofur. Thorin watched the hobbit bring an armful back to Bofur, who smiled and thanked him. No one would accuse a dwarf of being soft-hearted, but Bofur was easy for everyone to get along with. 

With the fire underway, it was only a short time until supper. Thorin looked out across the neglected fields. Where had the farmer gone? Had he not sons to take up the plow and reclaim the earth? Had some scourge driven them away from home? Lost in his thoughts, he barely noticed that the hobbit was standing next to him until Baggins cleared his throat. “Would you like some stew?”

“What? Oh. Yes, thank you,” Thorin said. He took the proffered bowl and sniffed. Rich and hot. Excellent. But Baggins didn’t leave; he stood a short distance away, holding his own bowl. Thorin waited for him to say something or to go away. “Well?” he said at last.

“Well what?” The hobbit seemed confused.

“Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Baggins?”

Baggins raised his chin and smiled in a way that, Thorin was beginning to see, meant he was irritated. Interesting. He would almost have expected the hobbit to be cowed, to scurry off back to the fire. “Not unless you have a pipe and some Longbottom Leaf,” Baggins said. “I like a good pipe when I’m finished eating.”

“Do you, now.” Thorin said it as dismissively as he could. There was no purpose to this conversation. He had no interest in striking up a friendship with the halfling. This journey, his purpose, would consume all Thorin’s attention until it was complete. Baggins and his trivial preoccupations were a distraction. Again he wondered in exasperation why he had followed Gandalf’s advice. Even wizards were wrong from time to time. He remembered the conversation well.

“What use have we for a burglar? I mean to kill the worm, not reclaim my treasure coin by coin from under its nose,” he had argued.

Gandalf had sighed and said, “My dear fellow, you will not get within a league of the mountain before Smaug picks up your scent. He does not recognize the smell of hobbits. Besides which, Mr. Baggins is a good sort of hobbit, and a good sort of hobbit is just what you need on this quest. He has a great deal to offer.”

Thorin shook his head at the memory and took a bite of his stew. A great deal to offer. Perhaps the hobbit’s abilities would make themselves known when they reached the Mountain. Baggins was now sitting a short distance away from the dwarf. His bowl of stew was half gone, and he didn’t seem concerned that Thorin had lapsed into silence. Good. It wasn’t Thorin’s job to care for the halfling’s every need. A measure of self-sufficiency and hardiness was necessary in a traveler. It would do the halfling good to learn those skills. As he was thinking this, Baggins shifted, and immediately winced.

“Saddle sore?” The words were out of Thorin’s mouth before he could stop them. Well, it was only polite to inquire after someone’s health.

“A bit,” the halfling admitted. He gave the dwarf a small, pained smile. “I think I’m getting better at it, though. Getting used to her paces, and so on.”

“You need to relax. You’ve been sitting on the pony like it’s a chair. If you move with its gait, you won’t be so stiff.”

“Oh, right. Thanks.” Baggins seemed surprised.

Thorin grunted and finished his stew as quickly as he could. He needed to go check on the rest of the Company. There was no time to sit around chatting with hobbits.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Three trolls, two daring rescue attempts, some new weapons, and a fencing lesson.

It was full dark, a clear and starry night. The view across the plain was excellent, and they were well sheltered by the trees. Thorin stood by the fire while he observed the Company. The dwarfs were reclining on the ground, except for Bombur, who was eating another bowl of stew. Off under the trees, Thorin could see a few of the ponies grazing quietly. “Ori, see what’s taking Fíli and Kíli so long,” he said. The brothers had been gone quite a while now.

“Bilbo took ‘em their supper a little while ago,” said Bofur.

Thorin frowned. Before he could say anything, Fíli and Kíli burst out of the woods. Kíli immediately tripped over Gloin, but Fíli went straight to Thorin’s side. “It’s trolls,” he said shortly, his eyebrows drawn together with worry. “Three of ‘em. They stole the ponies, and now they’ve got Bilbo.”

More than one of the dwarfs cried out upon hearing this. Thorin drew his sword and said, “There’s a chance he’s still alive. We can save him if we hurry. Stealth and speed, my friends. Our burglar needs us.” The dwarfs hurried in his wake as he strode into the forest. The dwarf prince swung his sword, loosening his muscles for the fight that awaited them. That confounded halfling! Was he completely incapable of keeping out of trouble? Would he contrive to be an inconvenience at every turn of this journey? Anger boiled in Thorin’s heart, and battle-lust, and as they neared the glow of the trolls’ cooking fire, he started to run. Sword raised, he burst into the clearing, his dwarfs close behind. He quickly spotted Baggins, lying dazed on the ground. But there was no time. Thorin swung his blade at the nearest troll’s arm, and the battle was engaged.

It was a quick fight, but a difficult one. The trolls were brutally strong, with hides thicker than tree bark. The dwarfs fought well. At one point it seemed that a troll was hamstrung, but then he came back up and grabbed Dwalin, intent on revenge. They seemed on the brink of victory. Thorin grouped for a moment with Kíli and Oin at the edge of the clearing, but before they could leap back into the fight, one of the trolls shouted. Two of them held Baggins up between them, grasping an arm and a leg each. “Lay down your arms!” one of the trolls bellowed. “Or we’ll rip off his!”

Thorin’s stomach lurched. The hobbit stared down at them, eyes wide. Thorin couldn’t read his expression, and for once in his life, he wasn’t sure what to do. A member of his Company – a weak, burdensome member, but a member – was threatened with dismemberment, but should Thorin risk the lives of the dwarfs on the chance of saving the halfling? He had no doubt that the trolls would gladly rip Bilbo limb from limb. He set his sword gently on the ground, and around him, his dwarfs did the same.

In short order, all the dwarfs were well and truly caught. Bundled up like sausages, each in his own foul, filthy sack. Half the Company were trussed to a spit and set above the fire to roast. Thorin watched, enraged but helpless. Where was Gandalf when they needed him? A true ally would have been close by in times of danger. Thorin Oakenshield would not lose a single dwarf, not while he could still raise a sword or swing an axe. He struggled to work his hands free of their bonds. This would not be his end. He would fight to the death if he had to.

And then Baggins struggled upright. The halfling had managed to free the ponies before being grabbed by one of the trolls, and now he was… what was he doing? Advising the trolls, telling them the best way to cook a dwarf? There was an instant outcry from the dwarfs. “Traitor!” Thorin growled. After his comrades had run to the hobbit’s aid! After they had laid down arms to save him! For a moment, Thorin was all but blind with anger at this betrayal, but his sense won out as the halfling continued speaking. Baggins was playing for time. Of course. The sun would rise soon, but how soon? Not soon enough to save the dwarfs cooking slowly over the fire. Where was Gandalf? When the halfling confessed that the dwarfs were riddled with parasites, Thorin hardly dared to breathe. The trolls looked almost convinced. Of course Kíli immediately started shouting that he didn’t have parasites, the fat-headed fool, and the others joined in. Thorin kicked them and raised his eyebrows meaningfully, but the damage was done. The trolls were furious, and one of them started to reach for the hobbit in a way that made Thorin unreasonably angry. Gandalf! Where was Gandalf when they needed him the most?

And suddenly the wizard was there, the dawn at his back as he cracked the ridge apart to unleash deadly sunlight upon the trolls. When the dwarfs were freed, Thorin asked him, “Where were you?”

“Looking ahead,” said the wizard, as if it ought to be obvious.

“What brought you back?” Loyalty, honor, duty? Or mere chance?

Gandalf seemed to see Thorin’s uncertainty in his eyes, for he simply said, “Looking behind.”

\---

The incident with the trolls left everyone feeling the worse for wear. The ponies had bolted after their encounter with the trolls. Without the animals, the Company’s pace would be considerably slower. Thorin rubbed his jaw. There was no encouraging solution to this problem.

“We found something!” someone shouted, and Thorin hurried over. A cave – a troll-den. The smell was extraordinary. Thorin left his companions and went deeper into the den. There were weapons there, battered swords, rusted armor, and broken crossbows, most of it covered in a heavy crust of grime and cobwebs. The dwarf prince pulled one of the swords from its scabbard and was startled – the blade had a smooth, sweeping elegance, with no trace of rust.

Beside him, Gandalf examined another sword. “These were made by the elves,” the wizard said. Thorin scowled and was about to toss the sword down when the wizard spoke again, sharply. “You could not ask for a finer blade.”

Grudgingly, the dwarf slid the sword back into the sheath and brushed off a cobweb. He was not such a fool as to cast aside what was evidently a peerless weapon, but the touch of the hilt now disgusted him. The sword was tainted, forged by cowards and traitors. No matter. Thorin would create a new legacy for it. One of honor and courage. Bathed in the blood of goblins and orcs, the blade would one day be legendary among dwarfs, and its unfortunate origins would be ignored.

Outside the cave, the Company prepared to depart. Without the ponies, they had to distribute the supplies among the dwarfs and the hobbit. Thorin slung the new sword across his back. They wouldn’t be able to buy new ponies even if they could afford them – there were few settlements between here and the Lonely Mountain, and he would have no dealings with elves. He wondered, briefly, how much weight Baggins could carry; he had a slight frame, not as wide or heavy as a dwarf, so it would be unreasonable to make him carry as much as a dwarf. Once again, he would be a burden to Thorin’s dwarfs. Thorin glanced over to where the halfling was standing with Gandalf. The wizard had a very serious look on his face. To the dwarf’s surprise, Baggins was holding a long knife – more of a short sword, to him. The hobbit turned it over in his hands with an uncertain expression. Thorin doubted Baggins had ever held a weapon in his life, and for a moment he was torn between derision and curiosity. The dwarf shook his head and picked up his pack. It didn’t matter.

They had hardly left the troll caves when they came upon a strange man. Or rather, he came upon them, on a sled drawn by hares. Radagast the Brown, Gandalf called him – another wizard, a very odd one. Pine sap crusted the side of his face, and his movements were nervous and quick. He spoke of a blight on the forest. Thorin didn’t bother to eavesdrop. It wasn’t his concern. The wizards held a short conference a little ways away, and the dwarfs took the chance for a brief rest. Thorin watched Ori search out stones for his sling. The young dwarf had grown during their journey. He would make a fine, dependable warrior.

The hobbit had his back to Thorin, standing apart from the rest of the Company. The dwarf prince could see that Baggins was examining his new sword again. He turned it over in his hands, then gave it an experimental swing. He muttered something to himself and sheathed the blade. Thorin touched the hilt of his own new sword. Elvish weapons. How had the trolls come by them? He felt somewhat better about being captured, knowing that a worse fate had likely befallen the previous owner of his sword. The dwarfs were lucky to have escaped, he knew that. The halfling had been brave to stand up to the trolls. Anger and pity warred in Thorin. Baggins shouldn’t have put himself in that position in the first place. If the halfling hadn’t taken unnecessary risks to free the ponies, the dwarfs wouldn’t have been captured. He should have gone back to camp instead. The hobbit was no burglar. The foolish fellow couldn’t even protect himself. Thorin went to where the hobbit was sitting.

“Draw your sword,” he said, without preamble.

Baggins looked startled. “What?”

“Draw your sword. You need to learn how to use it.”

The halfling got to his feet slowly, straightening his grimy coat before he slid the little sword from its sheath. “Well, I don’t want to inconvenience you,” he said. His grip on the hilt was too loose. 

Thorin shook his head and drew his own sword. “You need to hold onto it tighter, otherwise it’ll be knocked out of your hand. Keep the end up, like this. I doubt you’ll ever have an enemy shorter than you, so you need to be prepared for attacks from higher up.”

Baggins nodded and raised the tip of his sword. He had a white-knuckle, two-handed grip on the hilt now. His arms and shoulders were stiff. Thorin lowered his sword and said, “Relax. You’re holding a sword, not a snake. It won’t bite you.”

“Sorry.” The halfling loosened his stance slightly. A small improvement.

“More like this, laddie,” said Balin gently. The older dwarf had come over to watch, and now he went to the hobbit’s side. “If you bend your arms and relax your shoulders more, you’ll be able to hit harder.”

“That doesn’t make a lot of sense,” said Baggins, but he did as Balin said, and swung the little sword. His movements were smoother this time. 

“Good,” Thorin said. He raised his sword again approached the hobbit. Baggins’ face took on an expression of nervous fear. “Pretend I’m your enemy. I’m coming to kill you, Master Baggins, and all that stands between you and a painful end is your sword. What will you do?”

Baggins’ face went from fearful to horrified. “I think I’ll run away, actually.”

“Wrong answer.” The dwarf swung at the hobbit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am mostly working from memory with the dialogue. Let me know if I make a big honkin' mistake.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin and Balin argue about Bilbo. Wargs attack and the Company is forced to flee.

Baggins leapt back as Thorin came at him. The dwarf pivoted and slashed downward, but the halfling ducked aside and scurried away again. Thorin shook his head. “You can’t run away from every fight, Master Baggins,” he growled. “The day will come when you need to defend yourself.”

The hobbit shrugged as if he was irritated. “What am I supposed to do? You’re two feet taller than me, and I’ve never held a sword in my life.”

“Your next foe may be a goblin or an orc. What if you meet more trolls? What then?” Thorin twirled the sword loosely, one-handed, as he stepped slowly closer to the hobbit.

Baggins raised his sword grimly. His arms were stiff again, and he held it out like he dearly wished to drop it. Thorin swung his sword gently, aiming for the hobbit’s side.

The halfling jerked his sword up and the blades clanged together as he blocked Thorin. Baggins tried clumsily to thrust at the dwarf prince’s chest, but Thorin parried the move with ease. “This is ridiculous. I’m never going to need to know how to do this,” said the hobbit. He sheathed his sword in disgust.

“Don’t say that, laddie,” Balin cautioned.

Thorin slid his own sword into its sheath and went back to his seat, battling a mix of frustration and scorn. It seemed Baggins was determined to be a burden to his comrades, unwilling even to defend himself from danger. Once again, Thorin asked himself why he didn’t just send the halfling back to the Shire. The answer was twofold: first, Baggins was a contract member of the Company, and second, he would probably die on the journey home without the dwarfs to take care of him. 

The dwarf prince didn’t look up when Balin sat down next to him. “He is trying, but you must remember, he has never had to live like this before,” said Balin. “He’s a good enough fellow.”

“Good enough, perhaps, but unsuited to this journey,” Thorin said in a low voice. “I try to look after all of my dwarfs, but Baggins defies all sense. He refuses to even learn to defend himself! He’s been nothing but a burden so far, and I fear that his helplessness will put the rest of the Company in danger.”

Balin sighed, but before he could speak, there was a howl, and more soon followed. 

“Are there wolves?” Baggins said. 

Another howl, and a warg leapt at them from a boulder. Thorin cut it down, but before he could free his blade from its neck, another warg bounded at the group. Kíli killed it with one shot. More howls came from all directions, and the wizard Radagast took off with his team of hares to create a diversion.

Gandalf led the Company in the opposite direction. They left the forest behind and were forced to dash across open country, taking cover alongside boulders and rocky outcroppings. More than once Radagast led the wargs, which were ridden by orcs, across the Company’s path. At one point, Ori almost stepped out in front of one of the beasts. Thorin dragged him back behind the shelter of a boulder.

Their luck couldn’t last. Finally, an orc scout rode up onto the boulder the Company was hiding behind. Thorin nodded at Kíli, and the young dwarf stepped back to shoot the orc. His arrow went astray and stuck in the warg’s hide. The orc and his mount leapt upon the dwarfs, who quickly set upon them with axes and blades. The deaths were not quiet. The warg roared before they killed it, and Thorin knew its companions would be drawn to the sound. Throwing stealth to the winds, the Company bolted across open ground. Where was Gandalf leading them? Thorin could remember no safe haven in this area, and the orcs were closing on the Company quickly. Mounted on wargs and outnumbering the dwarfs, it would not be an easy fight, and Thorin feared to lose any of his companions. He trusted Gandalf to lead them to safety, but at the same time he planned for a last stand. If they could get to high ground, they might survive the fight. But Kíli was their only archer.

And suddenly they were lost. Gandalf had abandoned them again – disappeared somehow, using his wizardry. Thorin cursed. Cornered, exposed, the dwarfs could only watch the orcs approach on their wargs. Closer. Closer. Thorin could almost smell their rancid breath. He dragged his sword from its sheath and readied himself.

“Kíli, shoot them!” he cried. The young dwarf fumbled with his arrows, and Thorin knew he was afraid.

Gandalf reappeared again, between two rocks, and he called them to him. There was a tunnel. It would be defensible, at least – no warg could fit in that space, and the orcs would be forced to come down one at a time. Thorin waited on the foremost rock while his companions slid down the tunnel. Baggins was one of the first; just as well, since his small knife would be of little use against the orcs. A stray warg bounded ahead of the others. Thorin slashed at it, killing it before it could harm his dwarfs. The dwarf prince was the last to slide down the hole, into a small cave, all but hidden by the rocks above. 

Before the orcs could follow, they were beset by a new enemy. The Company could not see who they were, but it sounded like a good fight. An orc was pitched sideways into the tunnel. They readied their weapons, but it was already dead. Thorin pulled the arrow from its throat and examined the head. The slender piece of metal brought an involuntary scowl to his face. “Elves,” he said, and looked up at Gandalf accusingly. How had he brought this about? Thorin knew well that Gandalf was a friend of the elves, but he had thought that the wizard would respect his wishes. The dwarf had made it clear that he would not treat with the elves.

“What should we do about this?” said Oin, standing at the back of the cave. A path led away, and Thorin could see daylight.

“Follow it, of course!” Bofur said, and the dwarfs were quick to follow him. 

As the Company hurried to the passage, Thorin thought he heard Gandalf mutter, “I think that would be wise.” That served only to strengthen Thorin’s suspicions. He knew the Hidden Valley lay near here, and that Gandalf was very friendly with the elves that lived there. Was Gandalf deliberately leading them to that place?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thorin is about as stubborn and unreasonable as they come. And he's a crappy teacher.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Company arrives in Rivendell. Thorin does some thinking, and his companions destroy some furniture.

When Thorin saw for sure that they were being led to the elves’ Hidden Valley, he was furious. Gandalf had tricked him – betrayed his trust, yet again. It was infuriating that Gandalf would manipulate him in this way. Despite his anger, Thorin had no choice but to put his faith in the wizard again, and follow him down the path to the little settlement. 

The view across the valley was fine enough, but to his mind, it was spoiled by the arrangement of buildings and bridges nestled at one end. He did not care for the elves’ style of architecture. Sweeping lines and spindly arches, it all appeared ready to collapse at the first breeze. They waited briefly for Lord Elrond to return – apparently he had been busy slaughtering the orcs and the wargs that had pursued Thorin’s Company. When he greeted the dwarfs, the dwarf prince found no reason to revise his general opinion of elves. They were hospitable, he would give them that, though their idea of an enjoyable meal was not exactly in keeping with that of the dwarfs. Still, as he sat at Lord Elrond’s table, the elf was nothing less than the perfect host. He even revealed the lore surrounding the two swords Thorin and Gandalf had found in the troll-hoard.

“This is Orcrist,” said Lord Elrond as he held Thorin’s sword up to the light. “The Goblin-Cleaver. It is a famous blade. I hope that it serves you well,” he added, and carefully passed the weapon back to the dwarf.

Thorin inclined his head as he accepted it. In truth, he hadn’t expected this courtesy. Part of him had thought that Lord Elrond might demand that the sword be returned to the elves. The rest of the meal passed more enjoyably than he had hoped. His only concern at this point was that Gandalf would tell the elves of the Company’s mission. The wizard had demonstrated little respect for Thorin’s wishes so far.

The dwarf prince’s fears were confirmed when Gandalf took him and Balin aside to speak with Lord Elrond privately. The wizard wanted the elf’s help – help deciphering the secrets of Thorin’s map. If there was anything to find, it could be of some help in the quest, but Thorin did not want Lord Elrond’s counsel any more than he wanted his hospitality. The map’s secrets belonged to Thorin. Balin was on his side, at least. 

Yet Gandalf’s arguments – a mix of bullying and persuasion, the dwarf thought bitterly – were convincing. And Thorin felt himself reach into his coat. He pulled the map out, crinkling as it caught for a moment. Along with the key, this map was one of the only pieces of Erebor that he still had. A piece of home. A promise that they would return, that he would take up his grandfather’s throne and raise a mighty kingdom from the fire-worm’s ashes. The success of Thorin’s quest rested heavily on the map. He needed this thing, as a guide and as a token. The dwarf prince held the map out to the elf.

Lord Elrond unfolded it gently. For that, Thorin respected him. The elf turned away and held the map up to the light, angling it this way and that. Thorin prepared to reveal the nature of their quest. The elf was cunning, and he would want to know why the map was important. But when Lord Elrond asked, Gandalf answered first. “Purely academic,” the wizard said. When the elf turned away, Gandalf met Thorin’s eyes and nodded slightly. 

\---

In the end, the reward was worth the risk. With Lord Elrond’s help, they discovered the map’s hidden moon-writing. The secret door could only be opened on Durin’s Day. As Thorin and Balin returned to their quarters, the dwarf prince felt hope rise in his chest. After weeks of setbacks and difficulties, they were finally making progress. “We might yet succeed, Balin,” he said as they crossed a bridge.

The older dwarf shook his head. “I’d follow you anywhere, Majesty,” he said, “but I still don’t know that I like letting the elves know of our mission.”

“I needed to know the map’s secrets.” As they got closer to their quarters, he could hear singing and raucous laughter. It was good for the Company to relax in relative safety. Even dwarfs need the occasional comfort: a soft bed, a hot meal. Thorin himself would find little rest in Rivendell. The elves had not offered them violence or hostility in any way – quite the opposite – but Thorin did not trust them in the slightest. Their betrayal had cut too deeply. In his mind, Thorin could still see Thranduil turn his back on the dwarfs. 

Thorin had been forced to grow up then, and quickly. When Erebor had fallen he was younger than Fíli and Kíli were now, and he did what he could to support his grandfather’s authority, but Thror was ill-suited to life on the road. Thrain was strong, but like his father, it had been long since he had had to lead his people through unfamiliar dangers. As he grew older, Thorin came to see them differently; his forefathers were imperfect, and that troubled him. If the dragon hadn’t come – if Thorin had inherited the throne peacefully... but it served no purpose to think like this. He had grown into kingship without the security that his forefathers had known. Thror and Thrain had lived long in comfort, but at their core they had been dwarfs, fierce and hardy. If Thorin could trust nothing else, he could at least trust in his blood. He could trust in his companions. They had proven themselves time and again, all of them. Though Gandalf might sometimes go against Thorin’s wishes, the dwarf prince knew that his best chance at reclaiming Erebor lay in trusting the wizard’s guidance.

Baggins, though. As they stepped into the light of the dwarfs’ fire, Thorin glimpsed the halfling standing at the edge of the gathering. The little fellow was laughing with the others at one of Bofur’s jokes. Baggins was not a threat to Thorin’s authority, nor did the dwarf prince believe that he would betray the Company. Yet by his inherent weakness he was putting them all in danger. The hobbit’s presence weighed heavily on Thorin. What was he to do with Baggins? 

\---

When they noticed him, the rest of the dwarfs greeted Thorin with hearty yells. It gave him a perverse pleasure to see that the Company had built their fire from the elves’ furniture. Balin just shook his head and went to his sleeping quarters. Thorin quietly bade him a good night as he went. Shunning the fireside, Thorin stayed at the edge of the group, preferring the half-darkness to the warmth of the flames. He leaned on a pillar and looked out at the Hidden Valley. The night was deepening. Past the brightness of the fire, he could see the rich, dark blue-purple of the sky, heaped with stars. 

“Lovely view,” Baggins said softly. Thorin looked down at him. He hadn’t heard the halfling approach.

“It is.” The dwarf prince crossed his arms over his chest. The hobbit looked tired, but his eyes were bright. His short sword was still strapped around his waist. He must have taken his cue from the dwarfs, who refused to disarm themselves for any reason. Baggins glanced up at Thorin. The dwarf prince met his gaze for a moment, then looked away. The fire had brought a ruddy color to the halfling’s face. Their brief stay in Lord Elrond’s house had worked wonders on him. A square meal, a short rest, and Baggins seemed good as new. Perhaps hobbits were a hardier lot than he thought. It occurred to him that Baggins rarely complained about the food, the weather, or the long hours in the saddle, unlike some of the dwarfs in the Company.

“Are we really leaving before dawn tomorrow?”

The question shook Thorin from his thoughts. He looked at the halfling and said, “Yes. I do not mean to spend another night in the house of my enemies. I suspect that Lord Elrond means to prevent us from continuing our journey.”

“Why would he want to do that?” asked Baggins.

“I don’t pretend to fully understand the ways of elves, Master Baggins. But Lord Elrond seemed displeased to learn of the nature of our quest. Even now, he is probably convincing Gandalf put an end to it. For whatever reason, the elves don’t want me to reclaim my kingdom.” They probably hoped to kill the dragon and take the wealth of Erebor for themselves.

“Hmm,” muttered the hobbit. Thorin glanced at him. Baggins leaned on the railing, chin in his hand as he frowned in thought. Thorin couldn’t guess what he was thinking. It irritated him. His dwarfs were easy to read; frankly, most of them were fighters, not thinkers, and didn’t fret over difficult matters. With the exception of Balin, most were content to sit by the fire and drink and sing. He loved them, and respected them, but he could not count wisdom as one of their strengths.

“Maybe they just think it’s too dangerous,” Baggins said.

Thorin’s irritation blossomed into annoyance. “Perhaps things are different in the Shire, Master Baggins, but among dwarfs, my decisions are not frequently questioned,” he said, his voice little more than a growl.

The hobbit’s eyes widened, and he quickly said, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—I wasn’t—”

“The elves care only for themselves, and whenever they interfere with the affairs of dwarfs, it is only for elvish benefit,” Thorin said. “They do nothing out of goodwill or in the interest of friendship.”

“I’m sorry,” said Baggins quietly. His mouth was twisted in a frown. “I wasn’t questioning your leadership. I was just wondering.” The halfling fell silent again.

Thorin shrugged and turned his back on the night sky to sit on the stone railing. He was facing the fire now; with the rest of the Company distracted, he was free to study them. Bombur hadn’t moved from the wreckage of the furniture he’d single-handedly destroyed. Kíli was taking a deep draught from his tankard while Fíli, ever the responsible elder brother, juggled knives. Dwalin had disappeared, and was probably in bed already. It would be a good idea for them all to sleep while they could. They would leave before dawn to make a hurried trek east into the Misty Mountains. The halfling might seem lively enough after this brief rest, but he would quickly tire again. The dwarf prince stifled a yawn at the thought of sleep. Thorin was tired, more tired than he wanted to be. Perhaps it was time to send everyone to bed. He would post a watch over their quarters, and they would leave when the moon started to fade.

He slid off the railing and straightened his tunic. Before he could get the dwarfs’ attention, though, Baggins spoke again. The hobbit didn’t look at him, and his voice was so low that Thorin almost missed his words. “I don’t mean to be a burden to you, Thorin. I am trying.”

The dwarf prince turned to look at the halfling. Small, and naïve, but not a coward, and not such a fool as Thorin had originally thought. Perhaps he understood that he was pitied by most of the Company; he certainly understood Thorin’s feelings toward him. Baggins was to be pitied. He was gentle by nature, and physically weak – an inconvenience to his comrades, a liability in battle. Yet Thorin could not ignore the hobbit’s nobler qualities: courage, loyalty, intelligence. He opened his mouth to say… something reassuring, perhaps, but before he could speak, the halfling had slipped away. Thorin watched him tap Bofur on the shoulder and say something with a small, self-deprecating smile. Bofur got to his feet, and the pair left, walking in the direction of the Company’s sleeping quarters.

Thorin felt something clench in his gut at the sight of them walking together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really enjoy exploring Thorin's perspective. He is singlemindedly determined to win back his kingdom, and the trauma he's lived through has made him into a very serious, reserved, suspicious person.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Company leaves Rivendell.

Gloin had first watch. Thorin could hear him sighing and shuffling his feet in the corridor. Inside the chamber, Ori mumbled something, rolled over, and subsided. Nori and Dori were fast asleep. Thorin lay quite still in his blankets, hoping that if he waited, sleep might come soon.

The Company had shunned most of the rooms the elves had offered them, preferring to crowd into three bedchambers with their sleeping rolls. No one said it out loud, but it felt safer to stick together. In the next room, Bombur and Oin shared the floor with Balin and Dwalin. Fíli, Kíli, Bifur, Bofur, and the halfling occupied the third chamber. 

Was Thorin the only one awake? His previous exhaustion was all but forgotten. He had been lying wide awake in his bedroll for what felt like hours now, turning things over and over in his mind. He tried to distract himself with thoughts of the map, and the secret entrance they would find on Durin’s Day, but it was no use. Without fail, he was repeatedly forced to picture Bilbo leaving the fireside with Bofur, walking companionably to their sleeping quarters. He thought of how Bofur always had a joke or a friendly word for the halfling. Always helped the hobbit with his pony, always made sure Bilbo had enough to eat. Were these simply the actions of a comrade, or—

He cut himself off and rolled onto his side. A king should not worry. A king is in control, and has nothing to fear. It hardly mattered if Bofur and Bilbo had struck up a relationship. Dwarfs were often reluctant to marry, as it would distract them from their work, but they were not so hesitant to satisfy their physical needs together. He would not forbid his companions from doing as they pleased in that regard. Thorin himself wasn’t interested in either a wife or a casual lover. Bilbo wasn’t versed in the ways of dwarfs, but he was surely competent enough to understand what he did and didn’t want. Bofur was a fine dwarf – a good fighter, a loyal companion.

Gloin had gone to bed, and Dwalin had taken over as sentry, before Thorin felt himself drifting to sleep.

\---

He jerked awake when someone touched his shoulder. “Thorin,” muttered Fíli. “It’s getting light.” Thorin nodded, and his nephew moved off to start waking the other dwarfs. They would need to leave quickly and quietly. Gandalf’s diversion would keep Lord Elrond and the rest of the White Council occupied. Meanwhile, the Company would take a little-used path out of Rivendell. It was too narrow for horses, and the elves would be forced to pursue on foot, if it came to it.

Thorin rolled his blankets and tied them to his pack. They would eat as they walked. With luck, they would be out of the Hidden Valley before the elves realized they were gone. He touched the map to make sure he still had it. The key was a reassuring weight in his pocket. The dwarf prince pulled on his coat and hefted his pack.

The other dwarfs were soon prepared to leave. They gathered in the corridor. The dim light was growing stronger; they would need to hurry. Thorin counted his companions – all present except for Kíli. Oh, never mind, Kíli had just knelt for a moment to tie his boot. Baggins was standing to one side. He was leaning on his walking stick and his eyes were half-shut. Thorin started to wonder if the hobbit hadn’t slept well, then he decided that he’d rather not know.

They slipped out of Lord Elrond’s house without detection. By the time the sun broke over the valley, the Company was halfway up the mountainside, well on their way to the Misty Mountains. Thorin paused to take stock of his companions as they passed him. They seemed glad to be on the road again. A few yards back down the trail, Baggins had also stopped. The halfling was looking back at the Hidden Valley. Lord Elrond’s house was still visible, its graceful white arches catching the early light. The same light turned Baggins’ hair a rich, ruddy color. Was he going to stand there all day? “I suggest you keep up, Master Baggins,” Thorin said.

The hobbit’s shoulders stiffened slightly, but he didn’t say anything. He just fell back into line and followed Dwalin up the path. As he passed Thorin, their eyes met. Thorin had expected Baggins to look hurt or defiant. Instead, he was wearing a familiar expression of stubborn irritation, with a slight smile that suggested he was holding his tongue. 

\---

They didn’t stop for a rest until well past noon, when Thorin was confident that they weren’t being followed. Clouds were starting to shield the sun. It was warm enough in the foothills of the Misty Mountains, but it would be colder once they got up into the high parts of the pass. He didn’t think they would see any snow, but it was impossible to be certain.

The dwarfs had shed their packs and were scattered around the path, sitting on the rocks. Gloin produced a whetstone and began sharpening his already sharp axe. Bofur went through his pockets and came up with some dried meat. He tossed a piece to Baggins, who was sitting nearby.

Thorin pulled the map out and studied it yet again. He couldn’t see the moon runes, but he knew exactly where they were hidden. Another gift from his ancestors.

“There’s a stream over here,” Kíli called out from behind Thorin. 

Dwalin had a taste and said, “It’s good water.” Some of the dwarfs went to refill their waterskins. Thorin leaned back against his rock and tipped his head up to the sky. Each step brought them closer to Erebor. The thought of it filled him with a restless energy. There was no room for uncertainty – he was utterly sure that they would win back his kingdom. He would be the King Under the Mountain; his nephews would stand at his side, and dwarfs would flock to Erebor once more.

But many leagues still lay between Thorin Oakenshield and his goal. Daydreaming would get him nowhere. The dwarf prince stood and went to the stream. Dwalin was right; the water was cold and sweet. The stream ran loud and fast across steep, bare rock. It twisted out of sight a short ways downhill, its course hidden by the rocks that jutted out of the earth. His waterskin was half full when the sound of a splash and a quiet curse came to him from downstream. Thorin frowned. He’d thought the rest of the company was still sitting by the path.

The dwarf prince stepped around the high rock that had been blocking his view. Baggins was crouched next to the stream. He jerked sideways when Thorin appeared, almost falling into the water in his surprise. The hobbit’s expression was one of mingled surprise and pain, and as Thorin went to help him up, his eyes landed on the stark, red blood that blossomed from the halfling’s hand.

“What happened?” Thorin asked. He caught Baggins’ wrist and spread the hobbit’s hand to better examine the wound. Something had sliced along base of his thumb, right in that thick bundle of muscle in his palm. Thorin looked closer. He pinched the cut open, drawing a sharp hiss of pain from Baggins. The wound was clean, and though it bled freely, it wasn’t too large. Thorin caught the halfling’s gaze. “Well? What happened?”

Baggins shook his head slightly. His expression was rueful as he said, “I came to fill my waterskin. I slipped and caught myself on a sharp rock. My hands aren’t quite as tough as my feet. I’m all right, really. Don’t trouble yourself.”

His palm, though cold and damp from the stream, was soft. His exposed wrist was small, and so pale that Thorin could see slender veins weave from the hobbit’s arm into the hand. The dwarf’s own hands had blunt fingers, calloused skin, and scars whose origins he’d forgotten. “Well, it’s not too serious. It should heal pretty well on its own.” He let go of Baggins’ hand and dug in his pocket for a moment before coming up with a few wilted leaves. “Chew these up and put them on the cut. Keep it clean.”

Baggins examined the leaves with a small frown.

“They’re not doing any good like that,” said Thorin impatiently.

“No, I know, it’s just… I recognize this plant. From my garden. It’s a weed. Kingsfoil.”

“Is it? Well, we use it sometimes for minor injuries.”

The hobbit hesitated, his gaze darting across Thorin’s face questioningly before putting the sprig of leaves in his mouth. He made a face as he chewed. As he put the mushy green clump on his cut, he said, “Thank you.”

Thorin shrugged. He would’ve done the same for any of his dwarfs. “An infected wound is an unpleasant experience. I hope you never have to go through that.” He picked up his waterskin again and finished filling it. Baggins quietly did the same. When Thorin walked back to the place where his dwarfs were resting, he knew that the hobbit was close behind him.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thunder-battle! Stone giants! Bunch of folks nearly die! Thorin has tons of feels!

The rain came after nightfall. They were high in the mountain pass now. Thorin had no choice but to push on, through rain and deepening darkness. There was no place for them to stop, unless they wanted to sleep sitting up, in a row, along the narrow path. The rain continued to fall heavily and steadily. It wasn’t long before they were soaked, and the ledge became quite slippery underfoot.

Thunder roared overhead. Thorin had gotten used to that, but when he heard a different kind of rumbling, he squinted up at the mountain. It was the clash of rock against rock. Boulders hurtled down the mountainside. The Company barely had time to duck back against the cliff before a cascade of rocks showered past, plunging into the deep rift between the mountains.

When he deemed it safe, Thorin leaned out again, trying to count the dwarfs. Eight, ten… Bifur, Bombur, and there was Gloin, wearing a fiercely unhappy expression. There was the hobbit, wet as a drowned rat but clinging determinedly to the side of the cliff. Thorin started to lead the Company forward again. Before he’d gone more than a handful of steps, though, the mountain opposite them shifted and started to buckle upward. It uncurled and stood on two legs of stone; its entire body was stone, top to bottom. Bofur shouted something about stone giants. Another stone creature appeared and heaved a piece of the mountains at the one nearest the Company.

They were now in a very precarious place. The thunder-battle raged above them, sending shards of rock flying everywhere. If they could get far enough away from the battle, they wouldn’t be hurt, but what was distance to these giants? They seemed massive enough to cross the entire Misty Mountains in a few steps.

He barely had time to think this before the ledge started to heave under their feet. It seemed a third giant was about to awaken. Everyone scrambled forward, hurrying to get off the giant before it strode into the battle. The rumble of rock unfolding, of colossal limbs stretching to their full, was so loud in Thorin’s ears that he almost couldn’t hear himself breathe. There was a shout behind him. A gap had opened in the path; the stone giant was taking its leave of the mountainside, and half the Company was left clinging to its jagged skin. “Kíli! Grab my hand!” Fíli yelled.

Thorin felt his heart stop at the look on Kíli’s face. The gap was too wide; even now his nephew was being borne away. Fíli shouted again as his brother was taken further from him. Thorin watched as half his companions were carried off on the giant’s leg. Would they be able to hold on, or would someone slip on the wet stone and be tossed into the ravine? These giants could cover so much distance with one stride.

Luck was with them, it seemed. The giant stayed fairly near to them; at least, it didn’t go haring off into the darkness. The battle was difficult to see from their position. Thorin saw huge chunks of rock being tossed back and forth. A hit was scored on the third giant’s shoulder. It stumbled, and steadied itself; its leg was now very close to the ledge where Thorin and half his dwarfs cowered. “Come on!” he roared. A few of the stranded dwarfs were able to leap from the giant’s leg onto the safe ledge. There just wasn’t time. These giants moved too quickly in their fight, heedless of the miniscule lives at risk. The giant took off again with dizzying speed. Some of Thorin’s companions were still stuck on its leg. He watched helplessly as the giant’s legs – the only parts clearly visible – moved through the ravine, ponderously huge but perilously swift. Thunder crashed overhead and was joined by the bone-jarring rumble of rock on rock. The third giant swayed, stumbling sideways again. “Kíli!” bellowed Fíli. Thorin gripped his nephew’s shoulder. His chest was tight with fear. This entire situation was beyond his control; his friends, his kin, they were in terrible danger. The giant’s leg moved toward the cliffside again with gathering speed, and Thorin’s breath caught in his throat. Fíli was still shouting his brother’s name as rock crushed against rock.

Thorin felt his strength flee; his grip on Fíli’s shoulder loosened and his arm fell to his side once more. How many of his companions had he doomed to death by insisting on this path? His nephew – still a boy, really, still a foolhardy boy, but he had held so much promise. Thorin watched the stone giant’s leg shift away from the cliff, and the creature crumpled to dead stone in the floor of the ravine. His nephew was surely dead, ground into the mountainside along with Bofur, Bombur, Gloin… and what of Bilbo?

At this, a shudder coursed through Thorin’s body. An image of the halfling appeared unbidden in his mind; the small figure in his maroon coat, blonde-brown hair turned to reddish gold by the sun as he looked back at Rivendell. Thorin felt a bone-deep chill settle on him. The hobbit had been perhaps the most courageous of them all – to risk his life for strangers, to brave the wide, deadly world so that a handful of dwarfs might go home. His little house in the hillside would sit empty now; its life had been extinguished in the vain pursuit of Erebor.

He felt himself moving forward on stiff legs. Two stone giants still battled around them, and his remaining companions were still in danger. There was no chance the others were still alive – no chance – yet as he neared the spot where rock had met rock, Thorin felt his heart pound harder. Hope and despair mingled in his heart. His nephew – the halfling – his friends…  


…were alive.

\---

The dwarf prince’s eyes darted across the group. Kíli was there, and the others, wet as drowned rats but otherwise well. Fíli was at his brother’s side in a heartbeat. Sweet, warm relief flooded through Thorin. His sister-son, the youngest of his line, was alive. For a moment, Thorin had to bow his head in a whispered prayer of thanks. But where was the hobbit? How cruel would it be if he was the only one lost? Yet Thorin had always expected the worst for Bilbo Baggins. He was too weak, too soft, too accustomed to his slow, comfortable Shire. There was no way he would have survived this quest. 

“Where’s Bilbo? Where’s the hobbit?” said Bofur.

He’s dead, Thorin wanted to say. He tumbled over the cliff and into the abyss. Somewhere deep in that ravine, the halfling’s small body was sprawled loosely against the scree, or perhaps it had been buried by the rocks that had taken his life. There would be no one at home to grieve his death, for they would never know his fate.

There were exclamations behind him, and a sudden scramble to the edge of the cliff. Thorin leaned over to see what the others had found. It was Bilbo. Clinging for dear life to the rocky ledge, the halfling’s feet scrabbled for purchase on the steep mountainside, and even from here Thorin could see the terror in his eyes.

Without a thought, Thorin swung down from the ledge. He found a place for his feet and gripped the cliff tight with his right hand. With his left, he grabbed the back of Bilbo’s coat, and together the dwarfs heaved the frightened hobbit up to safety. That should have been the end of it. But Thorin felt the rock give out under him, and in the space of a gasp he started to fall. Fear and adrenaline surged through his blood. The mountainside would naturally be unstable after the stone giants’ battle. He should have expected that. It didn’t stop his heart from leaping into his throat.

Strong arms caught him, hauled him bodily up onto the ledge. Thorin clambered to his feet and looked over to where the hobbit was crouching among a knot of dwarfs. Bofur was there, helping Baggins up. Thorin’s eyes fell on their clasped hands. Perhaps he only imagined that Bofur’s grasp tightened for a moment, or that a significant glance passed between the two.

“I thought we’d lost our burglar,” said Dwalin.

It felt like only seconds had passed since the start of the stone giants’ battle, yet Thorin had been subject to a variety of painful emotions. He’d known the ache of fear and the first bitter taste of grief; the reprieve of finding his friends alive, and the sharp stab of fear again as he almost lost his own life. Thorin was ashamed of his fear. He was of the line of Durin, a king by rights, and he almost died with terror in his heart. That thought, coupled with the sudden flush of anger he felt at the sight of Bofur being so familiar with the hobbit, put bitter words in Thorin’s mouth. “He’s been lost ever since he left home.”

He turned away before he had to see the hurt on Baggins’ face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> People expressed a lurid, borderline kinky enjoyment of Thorin being jealous. That bit at the end here seemed to fit his character.
> 
> I also really wanted to expand on his feelings towards his nephews. I get the sense that when Thorin loves people, he REALLY REALLY loves them, with the kind of depth and commitment that sane people can't often manage. But picturing Fíli and Kíli as little kids, I can sort of understand how Thorin might feel.
> 
> Thorin's emotions exhaust me. He really needs to start meditating or something.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Company takes cover in a cave in the mountainside. It's not the greatest choice they've ever made.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A very thoughtful person mentioned that the plural of “dwarf” should be “dwarves” rather than “dwarfs,” according to Tolkien canon. I’ve switched over to that. I haven’t gone back to change previous chapters, though. Perhaps I’ll do that when I have more time.

The Company found shelter in a cave not far away. It was dry inside, with a soft, sandy floor. They would be able to stay the night, and hopefully the weather would be better in the morning. Thorin guessed that they were not quite halfway over the mountains. Everyone was exhausted, soaking wet, and cold.

“Let’s get a fire going,” said Gloin, clapping his hands together briskly.

Thorin shook his head and said, “No fire.” They were deep in goblin territory here. A fire, with light and smoke, would draw the attention of every creature for leagues around. It was Thorin’s hope that the rain would dampen their scent and discourage their enemies. It was certainly doing a good job of discouraging the dwarves.

He gave Bofur the first watch, and everyone settled in for the night. They would leave at first light. They would not wait for Gandalf – there was no telling how long the wizard would be busy with the White Council, and Thorin did not want to dawdle in the Misty Mountains. There were too many enemies here. A part of him also resented the Grey Wizard; Gandalf had interfered with all of Thorin’s decisions, right from the start. Thorin was the leader of this Company. This was his quest, and he had had his fill of the wizard’s manipulative guidance.

Thorin stretched out on his side. With his head pillowed on his pack, he was almost comfortable. Around him, his dwarves were slowly falling into slumber. Someone’s boot scuffed the sandy floor. In time, the sound of quiet snoring reached Thorin’s ears, tempered by the steady breathing of many sleeping bodies. Thorin closed his eyes. Fili and Kili were nearby, both of them safe, fast asleep and dreaming deep. He could rest now. Just for a short while.

But sleep would not come, not for hours. Thorin listened to the soft sounds of his sleeping companions. They had barely objected to the lack of fire. Most hadn’t even bothered to eat before falling asleep, which concerned him. At least they were resting. He closed his eyes and shifted slightly. Was the halfling asleep? Were some of those snores coming from him? After Bofur’s turn as sentry was finished, would he spread his blankets out and curl up next to Baggins? Thorin knew from experience the comfort that came from sharing a bed for the night; he could almost feel the warmth of another body tucked against his. He had not often sought that type of companionship, but in his youth his blood had burned hot and bitter, and sometimes his tensions had best been worked out in bed. There was no love in it. For Thorin, love was his commitment to family and duty. He thought of Fili, bellowing his brother’s name; he thought the look on Kili’s face as he was carried away, and his heart nearly broke. That was love, in Thorin Oakenshield’s mind: the knowledge that some people will hurt you without even trying. Dwarves do not give their love lightly, and all of Thorin’s belonged to his family, to his sister and her sons.

His ears caught a slight, irregular movement from within the cave. Maybe he was imagining it, but then he heard Bofur whisper, “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Back to Rivendell,” Baggins said quietly. “Thorin was right. I don’t belong here. I’m not one of you.”

Thorin’s eyes snapped open and his fingers instinctively gripped the damp folds of his own coat. The hobbit was leaving. He would sneak away in the night, walk back through rain and darkness to the House of Elrond. He would give up on the quest. Thorin’s fear turned to anger. Baggins was a coward and an oathbreaker; he came into their Company and would leave as he pleased, ignoring his duty.

The hobbit complained that he didn’t belong, that Bag End was where he should be. Perhaps that really was where he belonged – perhaps the halfling wasn’t truly fit for this adventure. What had he done to make himself a part of the Company? He was often totally dependent on the dwarves for his safety and comfort. 

But that wasn’t quite fair, was it? The hobbit had tried to save the ponies, and tried to save the dwarves when the trolls wanted to eat them. Thorin thought of the way Fili and Kili joked with the hobbit, and of the friendship that had grown between Baggins and Balin. But that didn’t mean he belonged among the dwarves. His ability to ingratiate himself to his caretakers didn’t make him any less of a burden.

“You don’t know what it’s like, you don’t have a home!”

Thorin stared at the sandy floor of the cave. The deepest shame in his life was that he had lost Erebor and so far failed to regain it. He was the king of a vanquished throne; the leader of a scattered people. _We do not have a home._ All his life, Erebor had been home, but what was it to his companions? His sister-sons hadn’t even been alive when Smaug took the mountain. Balin would remember, and a few others, but to most of the Company, Erebor was little more than a cave stuffed with treasure. For a moment, Thorin was almost overtaken by doubt. How could thirteen dwarves hope to cross all that distance and take back the mountain from Smaug?

Let Baggins leave. Let him scurry back to Rivendell, if that’s what he wanted. Thorin’s thoughts continued along this angry path until he heard Bofur say, “What’s that?”

The cavern was filled with a faint, blue light. Thorin glanced down at Orcrist; he could see its blade gleaming even in the sheath, and he would bet that Baggins’ little knife was doing the same. “Orcs,” he breathed. Thorin could hear the grinding of huge gears, and the sand under them started to shift. He leapt to his feet. “Everybody get out of the cave!” he roared. Before he could draw his sword, the floor opened under their feet, and the half-woken dwarves were plunged into the mountain.

Just before he dropped, Thorin caught a glimpse of Baggins over by the cave entrance with Bofur. Two steps further and the halfling would have been safe. Instead, he fell with the rest of them, deep into the cavernous recesses of the Misty Mountains. Thorin got the impression of a huge space, dimly lit by torches. Then he landed, and Oin landed on top of him.

Goblins. The dwarves were outnumbered at least fifty to one. Thorin was hauled upright and dragged away, surrounded by twisted bodies and evil faces. He kicked out at the nearest goblin and earned a punch in the kidney in return. The disoriented dwarves were led along a complex system of wooden causeways. Thorin glanced over his shoulder several times to see how his companions fared. Ori looked nervous. Gloin and Dwalin looked murderous. Thorin couldn’t see an easy way out of this situation; their weapons had been taken from them, and the odds were heavily stacked against them.

\---

The goblin king was a massive, foul creature, filled with a disgusting glee at having captured the party of dwarves. Thorin was dragged forward. The king of the goblins immediately recognized him. “I know someone who’ll pay well for your head. Just your head, of course, nothing else,” the goblin taunted. “An old enemy of yours. A pale orc.”

How had the Defiler survived? Thorin was stunned, but he pushed it out of his mind. The goblin king must be lying. They urgently needed to escape. Thorin would not allow his companions to be tortured for the goblins’ amusement. Ori’s expression had gone from nervous to terrified, and Kili looked like he was trying very hard to remain stoic. Thorin prepared himself for a fight. They may not have had weapons, but any of these dwarves was more than a match for a goblin. The problem was the sheer number of goblins.

But suddenly Gandalf was there. The cavern fell silent. He was surrounded by a pure, white light, and his voice was the most welcome sound Thorin had heard in many years. The dwarves took up arms again. Thorin drew Orcrist and leapt forward. He was filled with hatred for his captors. Each goblin he slew was one less that would threaten his companions. There was no time to look around or count the dwarves. He hoped that the halfling stayed close to Dwalin or Fili. The Company dashed after Gandalf, following him across causeways and bridges, cutting down any goblin that came too close.

They were nearing freedom. Thorin could feel it. They followed the path around a corner and were about to cross another path when they met the goblin king again. Blocked to the rear by a wall of enemies, and hemmed on either side by the edges of the bridge, the Company clustered together with Gandalf at their head. Thorin pressed forward with a growl. His blood burned like Mahal’s forge-fire; he would gut the goblin king, and anyone who stood in his way. 

Gandalf beat him to it. Glamdring flashed in the dim torchlight, and the king of the goblins collapsed before them. The force of his fall caused the bridge to collapse. Timbers snapped and support struts gave way under the combined weight of the Company and the massive goblin king. The dwarves clung to the platform as it plunged down into the cavernous recesses of the goblin kingdom. Thorin held onto the broken bridge with one hand, as the other was still gripping his sword. Wind and the sound of breaking wood filled his ears, along with the yells of his comrades. They would be dashed against the walls of the cavern, he was sure of it, or they would be killed upon impact with the floor. 

The fall ended suddenly. Wood scraped on stone, slowing them slightly, but the bridge met the floor with a great deal of force all the same. Thorin carefully took a deep breath. Nothing felt broken; adrenaline still coursed in his blood, and he started to pull himself free of the wreckage. Incredibly, it seemed as if all his companions were alive and uninjured. They had best run for the exit before the goblins beat them to it.

The arrival of the goblin king’s body was largely unexpected. The thick bastard landed square on top of the heap of shattered wood and injured dwarves. “You’ve got to be joking,” Dwalin groaned. With some difficulty, the dwarves all managed to squeeze themselves out from the pile. They had to run now; Thorin could hear the screams of the enraged goblins drawing nearer. Gandalf led them through a series of stone passages. There was light ahead, natural sunlight, pale but certain. Thorin burst out into the clear sunset and skidded slightly on the stony hillside. They were on the other side of the Misty Mountains now. A stand of tall pines jutted up in front of them, and beyond lay wild country. Thorin took a deep breath. The air was fresh and clean. They had escaped the goblins.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to Wikipedia, Glamdring glows blue when orcs are around, and since Orcrist is its sister sword, I figured it does the same. I may be wrong, but this is fanfiction and I’m about to make a dwarf and a hobbit turn gay for each other. Sword colors are the least of my worries.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin and the dwarves have a breather and everyone wonders where Bilbo is. Bilbo appears. Then the wargs come.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wouldn't "Thorin and the Dwarves" be a great name for a metal band? Maybe after the copyright expires.

The Company stopped under the pines to catch their breath. Gandalf counted the dwarves as they entered the shelter of the trees. “And Bombur, that makes thirteen,” he muttered. His voice rose as he added, “Where’s Bilbo? Where’s your hobbit?” Thorin glanced around. Baggins was well and truly missing. “Where is our hobbit?” Gandalf asked loudly.

“Curse that halfling! Now he’s lost? I thought he was with Dori!” Dwalin complained.

Gandalf rounded on Dori, who quickly said, “Don’t blame me!”

When Nori mentioned that he had seen Baggins slip away when the goblins captured the dwarves, Thorin felt like laughing. Of course he did. Of course Baggins would do that. _Our hobbit,_ he thought to himself. “I'll tell you what happened. Master Baggins saw his chance and he took it. He has thought of nothing but his soft bed and his warm house since first he stepped out of his door. We will not be seeing our hobbit again. He is long gone.” He caught a glimpse of Bofur’s face, and was both pleased and annoyed by the disappointment he saw there. But Bofur was hardly alone; Fíli and Kíli looked almost as upset, and Balin’s face was as tired and unhappy as Thorin had ever seen it. _Our hobbit._ Why would Gandalf call him that? Baggins wasn’t part of the Company; the peace-loving little homebody had never fit in with the dwarves. Thorin couldn’t keep the bitter resentment from his voice. They had been fools to trust the hobbit. _He is long gone._

“No. He isn’t.”

It was as if Baggins had appeared from thin air. More likely, he had been slower than the rest, and they hadn’t noticed him lagging behind as they hurried down the mountainside. “Bilbo Baggins! I’ve never been so glad to see anyone in my life!” said Gandalf. Balin clapped the hobbit on the shoulder, smiling widely.

“Bilbo! We had given you up!” Kíli said. He looked almost as relieved as Gandalf.

“How did you get past the goblins?” asked his brother.

Dwalin and Thorin exchanged a look. “How, indeed,” said Dwalin. He was suspicious, and Thorin shared his comrade’s mistrust. The halfling could move quietly, but no one could have made it through the goblin city without being noticed. Had he struck some kind of bargain with the goblins? If so, he was worse than a burden, he was a traitor, and Thorin would not suffer his presence for another second. The halfling had done little to prove his loyalty on this journey. He may have won the friendship of some of the dwarves, but Thorin’s trust was not so easily gained.

Baggins chuckled and stuck his hands in his pockets. Gandalf said, “Well, what does it matter? He’s back.”

“It matters,” Thorin insisted. “I want to know. Why did you come back?” He studied the hobbit’s face as he spoke, searching his expression for guilt or secrecy. Gandalf trusted Baggins, to be sure, but even Gandalf had not always acted in the most trustworthy manner.

He would always remember the hobbit’s response. Bilbo met his eyes squarely, with a half-smile, and said, “Look, I know you doubt me. I know you always have. You're right, I often think of Bag End. I miss my books. And my armchair. And my garden. See, that's where I belong. That's home. And that's why I came back.” His eyes were still locked on Thorin’s face, and his eyes were gentle. “Because you don't have one – a home. It was taken from you. But I will help you take it back if I can.”

The hobbit’s uncomplicated honesty threw him off guard. Thorin looked down for a moment, struggling with his emotions. He did not want to trust Bilbo. Thorin did not want anything to do with the halfling, whose forthright manner and casual vulnerability were so different from the dwarves. Thorin wanted simplicity – a weapon in hand, an enemy to fight, a goal to strive for. Bilbo was not a dwarf, and he did not have a dwarf’s needs or desires. He belonged in his beloved Shire, but he was here, in the wilds, with a sword at his side. Why would he do that?

Thorin looked up and met Bilbo’s eyes once more. The hobbit was still wearing that determined, knowing expression. And for a moment, Thorin let himself believe the halfling’s words. Bilbo had not been obligated, by family connection or by honor, to join the quest. He was not driven by greed for wealth. He had no reason to trade his comfortable life for a one of hardship, danger, and discomfort. He could have gone back to Rivendell, but he stayed with the dwarves.

_Loyalty. Honor. A willing heart. I can ask no more than that._ Thorin’s word’s to Balin, spoken so long ago in Bilbo’s home, returned to him now. He remembered Gandalf saying that there was more to the halfling than any of them knew. Perhaps the wizard was right after all.

\---

Thorin had scant moments to wonder about the hobbit’s change of heart. A sudden howl in the distance brought him back to the present. A frisson of tension ran through the group. Would there be no end to their troubles this day? Or was this the time when their luck would finally run out? “Out of the frying pan,” said Thorin, more to himself than to anyone else.

“And into the fire,” Gandalf finished. The Company was forced to flee again, racing downhill to escape the pursuing wargs. As he ran, Thorin was increasingly filled with an unshakeable sense of doom. His dwarves were tired. Some of them were injured. There was no shelter to be had, no defensible spot, and as he dodged around a boulder, he knew that this would be the day when he joined his forefathers in the halls of Mahal. The knowledge gave him a strange, resigned comfort. He would surely die, but he would die fighting. He would defend his comrades until his strength fled.

Nearby, a snarling warg bounded after Bilbo. Thorin’s heart leapt into his throat, but the halfling drew his sword and skewered the beast between the eyes. Hidden depths, indeed. All he wanted to do was gather Bilbo to him, to protect the hobbit from the perilous world; this was now more important to Thorin than anything else. Another warg snapped its heavy jaws at Balin, and Thorin buried Orcrist’s gleaming blade in its neck. He pulled the sword free and ran forward, following close behind Nori and Dwalin. But there was nowhere to go; they were truly trapped, hemmed on three sides by cliffs.

This would truly be his end, then.

“Up, into the trees!” Gandalf yelled. Thorin whirled, eyes seeking out each of his companions so that he could be sure they were safe. They were hauling themselves into the low branches of the pines, climbing higher. All except Bilbo. The hobbit was struggling to free his small sword from the warg he’d killed. Thorin started forward to help him. The warg pack was almost upon them; he could hear their wet panting and guttural cries. At the last second, Bilbo pulled his blade free and dragged himself into the nearest tree.

He could not have cut it any closer. Their feet were barely off the ground when the wargs bounded up to the trees, snapping and snarling. The beasts milled around for a moment. One or two bold ones leapt at the lower branches, but they couldn’t reach the dwarves.

What now? The wargs could simply wait; the Company could not remain tree-bound forever. Thorin hoped that Gandalf had some trick up his sleeve. There was no way he could hope to bring down all the wargs with arrows.

Everything changed when the Defiler appeared. Mounted on a snow-white warg, Azog sauntered close enough that Thorin could see his eyes. The pale orc leaned forward and drew a deep breath. “Do you smell it?” Azog called in the guttural language of the orcs. “The scent of fear? I remember your father reeked of it, Thorin, son of Thrain.” He threw the names down like an insult, and the satisfaction in his voice filled the dwarf prince with an all-consuming rage. 

“It cannot be,” he said aloud. Thorin hardly noticed his surroundings now; in his mind, he saw only Azog. He felt again his sword hewing flesh and bone, bringing the pale orc to his knees in the middle of the battle. That wound would have been fatal to any other creature. 

Azog spoke now to the other orcs. “That one is mine,” he said, not bothering to keep his voice down. “Kill the others.”

It was happening again. This foul beast would kill and defile those dearest to him. Thorin pictured his grandfather’s head, held aloft before being tossed aside, but this time he saw Fíli’s head, and Kíli’s, and he imagined the same fate for Bilbo and Balin. It was more than he could bear.

The wargs renewed their attack on the trees. They threw themselves at the low branches, heedless of injury in their frenzy to catch the dwarves. The trees shook with each impact. Branches were torn free. The Company climbed higher, but the force of the wargs’ assault was uprooting the trees from the thin, shallow soil. Thorin felt his tree list heavily to one side. When it started to fall, he leapt into the branches of the next closest tree. The dwarves scrambled from one tree to the next, and to the next. Before long they were all crowded into the branches of one tree, at the very edge of the cliff.

Thorin heard Azog laugh. The pale orc must be enjoying this immensely; here he had three of Durin’s direct descendents and many others of the line, trapped in a tree, awaiting his cruel pleasure. But they were not defeated. Gandalf used his wizardry to set a pine cone alight, and soon each of the dwarves was hurling flaming cones at the wargs. The flames spread quickly. It wasn’t long before the forest floor was burning hot and smoky in the deepening night. The wargs drew back slightly, repulsed by the fire. Thorin’s eyes were locked on the Defiler. He would kill the orc. He would finish what he had started all those years ago outside Moria. When the chance came, he would take it, and Orcrist would drink of Azog’s blood.

The tree swayed heavily. The weight thirteen dwarves, a hobbit, and a wizard was too much for it. As the wargs began to push and scrabble at its trunk, the tree pulled free of the earth and tipped out over the edge of the cliff. But the tree did not fall; it clung stubbornly to the rocky overhang, and the Company was left to dangle from its branches. Ori cried out as his hold loosened, but before he fell, he grabbed Dori. But Dori was not strong enough to support himself and his brother. He hung on with all his might, gasping for Gandalf to help him. Before Dori could fall, the wizard reached out with his staff and the dwarf clutched at it. Thorin watched Kíli struggle to hold onto his branch. Azog needed only wait; time and weakened limbs would soon have each of the dwarves plunging to his death.

When Thorin looked up, the pale orc was watching him. Their eyes locked for a long moment. This was it – it was time for Thorin to take up his sword and defend his people. Azog would not be content with the death of Thorin and his Company; he would seek out and slaughter every dwarf in Middle-Earth. Thorin could not allow that. He stood slowly and made his way back along the trunk of the tree. Dwalin called out his name, but he did not look away from his goal. Azog was before him, arms spread as if in welcome. Thorin’s pace quickened, and he raised Orcrist. Pure, venomous hatred filled the dwarf prince, bringing new strength to his limbs and new resolve to his heart. Flame rippled and crackled around him. This was his moment. He would die. But the Defiler would also die, and that was enough.

He roared as he swung Orcrist. The white warg darted forward and knocked him down with one blow. Thorin struggled to his feet again and raised his sword once more. The shield on his arm was the same one he had worn in his first battle with Azog. It was small and light, that narrow oak limb, but he had made it his own, and it had never failed him. He prayed that its strength, and his own, would not fail tonight.

The pale orc charged him again. Thorin tried to shield himself, but Azog’s club connected with the dwarf’s head, and Thorin was thrown to the ground once more. Darkness and red firelight spun before Thorin’s eyes. Pain, intense pain, pulsed in his jaw and neck. His fist was still closed tight around Orcrist’s hilt. That was something, at least.

His vision steadied in time for him to see the white warg close its jaws around his body. Long, sharp teeth dug into him, and the beast shook him like a hound with a rabbit. Thorin could not suppress a yell of pain. He slammed the pommel of his sword into the warg’s face. It worked – the warg tossed him aside.

Thorin was ashamed. He was dazed, bruised and broken; his thoughts came piecemeal. The Defiler sat on his warg uninjured. Thorin’s chest and side were white-hot with pain. He struggled to raise his sword one last time. He would not die in the dirt. But his hand closed around air. He had dropped Orcrist.

“Bring me the dwarf’s head,” said Azog carelessly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One of my difficulties in this chapter was figuring out the dwarves’ belief in the afterlife. I know that the dwarves credit Mahal (Aulë) with their creation, but I haven’t found much of anything that describes their spirituality beyond that. I know I’ve made more serious mistakes within this narrative (and they keep me awake at night, because I am nothing if not self-critical). But I’m uneasy with just writing, “oh well they chill with Mahal for eternity” and leaving it at that. It’s a minor point. Forgive me. This is all misdirected anxiety over the knowledge that I’m going to have to write a gay sex scene pretty soon.
> 
> I’m also frustrated by the conversation between Thorin and Azog. Like did Thorin spend years and years mastering the language of the Orcs so that he could understand Azog’s taunts? Or are they speaking a bastardized version of Khuzdûl? Or is it the international language of mortal enmity, understood only by the parties involved?
> 
> In other news, I'm pretty sure that Thorin’s personality is three-quarters angst and one-quarter daydreams of vengeance, i.e. punching Thranduil in the gonads.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin is saved, and he gains a deeper appreciation for the value of hobbits.

Thorin was not ready to die. Not ready at all, despite his previous resignation. Were Fíli and Kíli safe? He could only hope that Gandalf would protect his nephews. Despair consumed him. A dark shape moved in front of his eyes; when he blinked, it resolved into the grotesque form of an orc. It lowered its sword, aiming for his neck. Thorin could not move. The pain in his side, the nausea, the confusion of his mind – it was too much for him. Still, he stretched his arm out and fumbled for Orcrist’s hilt. This was not how he would die. This could not be the end of Durin’s line.

The orc raised its sword, and there was a moment where he paused before the downswing. Would it hurt? Thorin hoped it would. He deserved the pain. He had failed in his quest, and his friends would die because of him. Bilbo would die because of him.

A dark figure smashed into the orc, knocking the upraised sword aside. Thorin blinked and gasped – had he been holding his breath? The movement sent pain ripping through his side again. One of his companions had come to his aid. Thorin reached again for Orcrist. This time the pain was too much for him, and darkness veiled his eyes.

But before he passed out, Thorin saw the slight form of Bilbo Baggins plunge his little sword into the orc’s chest.

\---

He was cold. Wind buffeted him and drained the warmth from his body. Thorin could only just feel himself being set gently on a hard surface.

Gandalf’s voice came softly to him. The wizard called him awake in quiet Elvish even as his spells knitted bone and muscle. The burning pain in Thorin’s head and ribs faded to an ache. When the dwarf prince opened his eyes, it took a moment to focus, but Gandalf’s face quickly hove into view, wearing an expression of great worry. “Where is the halfling?” Thorin croaked.

With his return to wakefulness came an intense rush of emotion. Baggins had risked his own life, had gone up against a battle-hardened orc warrior, in order to save Thorin. The dwarf prince struggled with a mixture of resentment and gratitude. The hobbit had risked his life – his very life! That precious commodity, which could not be mined or bought or built! What gave him the right to risk it all for one dwarf? Yet had it not been for Bilbo’s reckless courage, Thorin’s head would have long since parted company with his shoulders.

“Bilbo is here,” said Gandalf. He wore a small, knowing smile, ripe with relief. 

Thorin stood slowly. Anger was building in him again. Bilbo should never have done what he did. That halfling – that troublesome, burdensome, infuriating fellow – should never have left his safe little house. The dwarves of the Company were clapping each other on the back and talking excitedly, but Thorin hardly spared them a glance. Bilbo was standing before him. The halfling’s expression was a mixture of happiness and apprehension.

“You! What were you doing?” Thorin demanded. The happiness drained from Bilbo’s face and was replaced by… shame? “You nearly got yourself killed! Did I not say that you would be a burden? That you would not survive in the wild? That you have no place amongst us?”

The dwarves and Gandalf had fallen silent. Bilbo’s shoulders hunched slightly, and he did not meet Thorin’s eyes. The dwarf prince felt his anger evaporate at the sight, and he took a step forward, willing the hobbit to look at him. “I have never been so wrong in all my life,” Thorin said, and embraced Bilbo.

After a moment, Thorin felt Bilbo return the embrace. The halfling was warm and solid in his arms. It was so long since Thorin had let himself feel this kind of affection for another person. His opinion of Bilbo had been completely reversed. As far as Thorin was concerned, the hobbit had proven himself the equal of any dwarf. His courage, loyalty, and determination were honorable, and Thorin was proud to have Bilbo in his Company.

But there was more to it than that. Even half-dead and covered in filth, it felt good to hold the halfling. Dwarves rarely show physical affection openly, though their emotions may consume them inside. Thorin hadn’t held his nephews since they were beardless children. He told himself that this was for Bilbo’s benefit; that hobbits were naturally more open and loving, and this embrace would reassure Bilbo. But he could not deny how good it felt. Selfishly, Thorin let himself squeeze the halfling a little closer. Bilbo was a steady, sturdy presence in his arms. He wanted to hold on forever. But he knew he could not, so the dwarf prince released Bilbo and stepped back. His hands lingered on the halfling’s shoulders as he studied Bilbo’s face. Bilbo looked stunned, but pleased, and the crease of worry had been erased from his forehead. Thorin became aware of the Company’s rowdy cheers behind him. 

“Forgive me for doubting you,” Thorin said. He didn’t look away from Bilbo’s face. It was of great importance that Bilbo understand how deeply Thorin regretted his previous unfriendliness. But the dwarf prince had never been skilled with words. Put a hammer in his hand and he would forge the finest things; give him an axe and he would fight until he dropped. But his words caught in his throat and his mind fumbled for inspiration at the crucial moment. Bilbo had to understand. Thorin felt as much love and respect for him now as he had ever felt for anyone, but he did not know how to say it. The hobbit was now both a friend and a trusted comrade. He had proven himself worthy of the highest praise.

A small smile quirked the corner of Bilbo’s mouth, and he glanced down for a moment. Perhaps he did understand. Thorin desperately hoped he did. “No, it’s fine. I would have doubted me too,” said the hobbit. The tension disappeared, and Thorin couldn’t help but smile.

He forced his gaze away from Bilbo’s face, and as he did, he caught a glimpse of the land around them. From this high vantage point he could see far across the landscape. And there in the distance was a mountain, jutting sharply from the ground like a tooth. Erebor. Home.

“Erebor. One of the last great dwarf kingdoms in Middle-Earth,” said Gandalf. His voice resonated in the still air.

Thorin’s chest ached at the sight. “Our home,” he said. Close enough that he could almost touch it. The weariness left his bones, and the dwarf prince was filled with fresh hope. He had thirteen fine, brave companions, and Gandalf to guide them. Erebor was all but won.

A bird darted over their heads with a cheerful twitter. The dwarves exclaimed at the sight. “A raven! The birds are returning to the mountain!” shouted Gloin.

“That, my dear Gloin, is a thrush,” Gandalf said.

“We’ll take it as a sign,” said Thorin. He couldn’t help but smile down at the hobbit standing behind him. “A good omen.”

Bilbo didn’t look away from the Mountain as he said, “You’re right. I do believe the worst is now behind us.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry this chapter was short. But Thorin does a lot of emoting -- I hope that makes up for it. He finally realizes how important a hobbit can be, even if he doesn't want to admit to himself that his feelings towards Bilbo are more romantic than platonic.
> 
> This chapter marks the conclusion of the events covered by the movie, but I'll be continuing the story based on the events in the book. If you don't want anything spoiled, ignore the chapters that come after this. But based on the comments, I get the sense that a lot of you are pretty familiar with the book, and you might be upset with me if I just leave you hanging here.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Company climbs down from the rock and rests at its base.

The dwarves were eager to continue their journey now. In the space of a day and a night, they had cheated death more times than Thorin cared to think about. It would be good to get back to the comparatively simple business of walking. 

“Look at this! Stairs!” called Nori.

Thorin went to the edge of the high rock. A staircase had indeed been hewn roughly into the side of the outcropping. For that, he was grateful. The business of getting down to the ground would otherwise have been difficult indeed.

It proved difficult enough even with the stairs. Gandalf led the way, and he went slowly and carefully, leaning heavily on his staff. Thorin followed him. The stairs were narrow, and the dwarf prince found himself seeking out handholds on the rough stone wall at his side. His ribs and chest were aching again, badly, despite Gandalf’s healing magic. In time he would be well again, but for now his movements were restricted by torn muscle and cracked bone.

Thorin was also beginning to feel his exhaustion again. It slowed his mind and made him clumsy. He was also desperately hungry and thirsty. But Gandalf led them on, sure-footed as any mountain goat, and Thorin had no choice but to follow.

They were perhaps halfway down the stairs when he slipped. The wall of the cliff stretched above, and whistling wind was at his left, when Thorin’s boot found a damp patch of stone. His foot slid out from under him. His other leg buckled, and he felt himself stumble sideways towards the open air.

Strong arms caught him and hauled him upright. “Careful now,” growled Dwalin.

Thorin nodded his thanks and curtly straightened his sword on his hip before following Gandalf again. He cursed his inattention. Even tired, wounded, and hungry, he should have been cautious about his footing. He hoped that his companions were more careful.

\---

The air was warmer when they reached the bottom of the high rock. Thorin closed his eyes and took a long, deep breath. The air was rich with the smell of pine and sun-warmed rock. A shallow river ran not far away. He could hear it rushing. It was full day now. Clouds sailed high across the blue bowl of sky, but they didn’t block the sun. Thorin tipped his head back and savored the warmth on his face. He had never thought that he would find himself giving thanks for the open sky. 

He stood to one side and watched his companions descend the final stairs. Bilbo was near the end of the line, with Ori and Dori, and Thorin took note of the halfling’s obvious weariness. They would all need to rest. Between them, they might have enough food to take the edge of their hunger, and a nap would lift everyone’s spirits. 

The dwarves gathered at the foot of the stairs. There was a small cave there, narrow and low, little more than a crack in the side of the high rock. It would be a suitable shelter. Gandalf went right to the back of the cave, the light on his staff showing it to be deserted. “We’ll rest here, then clean up in the river,” Thorin said. There was a rumble of relieved agreement amongst the dwarves. 

The cave was too small for all of the dwarves to fit inside. A few, Bilbo included, were left to stretch out on the stony ground in the shadow of the high rock. Thorin shook his head and said, “Master Baggins, you should sleep inside the cave.” He would be safe inside, tucked away at the back, perhaps. With thirteen dwarves and a wizard between him and harm, Bilbo would finally be safe. At least for a little while. 

But Bilbo just shuddered. “No, thank you! I couldn’t bring myself to spend another night in a cave. Fresh air and open country, that’s the ticket.”

Thorin mustered his dwindling patience. “It would be safer inside the cave,” he said. “We would all rest easier, knowing that our burglar is safe and accounted for.”

The halfling gave him a small, irritated smile and said, “Well, I would rest easier if I weren’t surrounded by a – a stone tomb.” He adjusted his sword and crossed his arms over his chest. 

Curse the stubbornness of hobbits! “You have proven yourself a capable fighter, but I must insist that you rest inside the cave, for your own safety,” said Thorin quietly. He did not want their conversation to draw the attention of the other dwarves, who were settling down to sleep. “We could be attacked at any moment by wargs or other enemies.”

“Mm, and if that happens, I expect we’ll fight them off.”

Thorin ground his teeth. He reminded himself that he owed his life to this obstinate halfling. “Bilbo, it would give me peace of mind to know that you are sheltered from possible danger.”

Bilbo stared at him, his expression uncertain. “Oh,” he said finally. “Well, I’m afraid you’re going to have to settle for an un-peaceful mind, because the cave’s full.”

Thorin gave up, shaking his head at the hobbit’s seemingly endless supply of cheeky answers. “Fine,” said the dwarf prince. “As you wish.” A few yards from the mouth of the cave was a low boulder; he went and sat by it, and leaned back against its implacable weight. Thorin would take the first watch while his companions slept. He slid his sword from its sheath and began to clean the bloodstained blade.

“What—what are you doing?”

He glanced up. Bilbo was still standing near the cave. He’d spread his battered coat on the ground, but hadn’t unbuckled his sword belt yet. “Keeping watch,” Thorin said.

“You must be exhausted. And you’re hurt. Why not let someone else do it?”

“A king does not shirk his duty. My companions fought hard, and they are weary. I will take my turn as sentry.”

Bilbo muttered something. Thorin caught the words “ridiculous” and “stiff-necked,” and he smiled down at Orcrist as he polished the dried blood away. Apparently stubbornness was a trait shared by many races.

A pair of bare feet stomped into view. Bilbo dropped his coat on the ground next to Thorin and sat down. The hobbit sighed and adjusted his sword with a grimace. “Well, I won’t let you sit up alone while everyone sleeps. It’s not fair.”

_If life was fair, Erebor would not have fallen,_ Thorin thought to himself. His father and grandfather would still live – his sister-sons would have grown up as princes, not as ragged blacksmiths-turned-warriors. His hand went still on Orcrist’s blade as he thought tiredly of all the ways life could have been different, if only it were fair. 

“If it’s not too much bother, would you mind showing me how to do that?” Bilbo had drawn his little sword and had it across his knees. Dark blood crusted around the cross-guard.

Thorin passed him the cleaning cloth. “Scrub it until the blood comes off. I doubt there will be any rust on these blades, but you should check for it anyway.”

“Thank you.” The hobbit diligently scoured the blade until it was clean. His small hands were nimble, and he was careful with the little sword’s keen edge. 

“I saw how you killed that warg,” Thorin said after a while. Bombur’s distinctive snores drifted out of the cave. Even Gandalf must be asleep by now. The heat of the day was working its magic on Thorin, and he struggled to keep his eyes open. “It was a brave deed.”

Bilbo’s mouth twisted and he looked down at the sword in his lap. “It was mostly luck. I’d never really killed anything before. Well, some fish, and a few chickens, but nothing as big as a warg.”

Thorin couldn’t remember his first kill. To go so long in life without having to fight, as Bilbo had done, was almost beyond comprehension. “It was not luck that led you to defend my life,” he said quietly. “I know little of the ways of hobbits, but dwarves attach great value to such an act. I am in your debt, Master Baggins.”

Bilbo muttered something and didn’t meet Thorin’s eyes. A faint blush had spread across his cheeks. “Anyone would have done the same. And I was just returning the favor. You, you’ve been carrying my weight since we left the Shire, and you’ve saved my life more than once.”

The hobbit was clearly uncomfortable, so Thorin let the subject drop. It occurred to him that this was the longest conversation he had ever had with Bilbo. He turned Orcrist over in his hands and tilted the blade so it caught the sunlight. It was a superior weapon – even after their battles, its edge was as keen as ever. The craftsmen of Gondolin had had admirable skill, though it irritated him to give such credit to his enemies. Thorin was glad that Bilbo’s weapon was of the same make. A lesser blade would have undoubtedly failed the halfling during their skirmish with the orcs.

“Thorin,” said Bilbo eventually, his tone hesitant. “I want to thank you for… well, putting up with having me in the Company, I suppose.”

“Think nothing of it,” Thorin said dismissively. He did not like to think about the derision he had previously shown the hobbit.

“I wasn’t prepared for this journey. I’ve only known a quiet life up ‘til now. And I want to help, I really do, but….” The halfling exhaled in a quick huff of frustration. “I’m not a burglar, and I’m certainly not a warrior. Thirteen dwarf warriors, with a wizard to guide them? There doesn’t seem to be any way for me to help. You were right to doubt my usefulness.”

Thorin shook his head. “Bilbo, you have already saved my life. Gandalf was right. There is more to you than meets the eye. Do not doubt yourself.” The halfling was discouraged. Perhaps it would help to remind him of the friendships he had built among the dwarves. “And you bring cheer to your companions. Balin, Ori, Bifur, Bombur. My sister-sons like you. And Bofur seems fond of you.” He struggled to keep his annoyance in check at that thought. The important thing now was to reassure his comrade.

“Mm, it is good to have friends. I can’t imagine what my neighbors at home would say if they knew I’ve taken up with a pack of dwarves and a wizard. It’ll be the talk of the Shire when I get home.”

“You’ll have some tales to tell around the fire.”

“Huh, Gandalf said something like that once. I expect my people will think I’m quite mad,” remarked the hobbit. Thorin couldn’t help but smile. Bilbo slid his sword back into its sheath and yawned. The afternoon light turned Bilbo’s curly hair to dull gold and highlighted the weary lines around his mouth and eyes. Out of all of them, this journey had perhaps been hardest for the hobbit. Bilbo deserved to rest. 

Thorin continued to slowly polish Orcrist’s gleaming length. He could hear Bilbo’s breathing become slow and soft as he started to doze, and when the halfling’s head tilted sideways and came to rest on the dwarf’s shoulder, Thorin made no move to stop him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the movie, they didn’t have their packs or anything after escaping the goblins, so I imagine things were pretty unpleasant for the Company. No blankets, no food, no handkerchiefs!
> 
> This chapter was scary to write. I’m trying to keep the characters’ personalities as close to movie-canon as possible, but Bilbo’s “voice” gives me some difficulty. I'm also kind of nervous about deviating from canonical events like this because there's so much room to royally screw up. In the book, it was like, “Oh yeah they went down the Carrock and chilled for a while, then went swimming,” and there’s so much room in there for me to write in details about Thorin’s thoughts and interactions. I let them take a nap because it seemed the humane thing to do.
> 
> I think Bilbo was trying to break the ice when he asked Thorin to show him how to clean the blood off his sword. Come on, Bilbo, this is basic stuff. You're not a Bracegirdle. Figure it out.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Company rests. Thorin and Bilbo talk. Everyone goes for a swim.

Thorin turned Orcrist over in his lap and ran his thumb over the engravings on the blade. In the past few months, and particularly over the last few days, the halfling had changed drastically. Unexpected reserves of courage and boldness had shown themselves, as well as a streak of stubborn determination that Thorin would not have predicted. It was… well, it was admirable. Few people could travel the Wilds and remain unchanged. It had brought out the best in Bilbo, and in the rest of the Company as well. Each of the dwarves was a bit more lean, tired, and wary, but they were more like proper dwarves now. Not trapped in a life of poverty, forced to scrabble for work among Men. As ore is refined into purer, stronger metal, the wilderness had forged the dwarves into something fierce and whole. 

He looked over at his sister-sons, sprawled on the ground in the shade. Kíli still clutched his bow, and fair-haired Fíli slept with his hand loosely wrapped around the hilt of a knife. Over time, Thorin had watched them grow into responsible – well, somewhat – adults. When Erebor was reclaimed, Fíli and Kíli would be his heirs. Princes among dwarves, sons of the line of Durin. Their half-wild behavior and childish shenanigans would have to be set aside. He was proud of his nephews, but they lacked discipline. Thorin’s paternal disapproval softened when Fíli rolled over and sleepily kicked at his brother, who kicked back without waking up. They were good lads. There was still time for them to finish growing up.

Bilbo shifted and muttered. Thorin went stock-still, but the hobbit didn’t wake up and didn’t move his head from the dwarf’s shoulder. It was lucky that the rest of the Company was asleep. Thorin did not want this moment to be shared. That, in itself, was difficult to understand – it was not strange or shameful for one comrade to support another, and the bond between warriors was often celebrated. But this was different, and that made Thorin uneasy. This was not a brief respite during battle. The stories and songs never mentioned quiet breathing, or the warmth of two huddled bodies. There was an unfamiliar, unsettling tenderness in this simple act, and Thorin disliked it even as he craved it.

It would be best to end this now. Bilbo already showed little deference to Thorin’s authority, and this overly familiar act could give the hobbit an inflated sense of his own importance to the dwarf prince. Bilbo may have proven himself, but he was not a dwarf, and Thorin could not allow himself to feel the same friendship for the halfling that he felt for Balin and a few others. Outsiders were rarely to be trusted, and never to be loved. But a part of Thorin was yet unwilling to move and risk waking Bilbo. He struggled to reconcile time-honored tradition with the need to adapt. The hobbit had saved his life. He was part of the Company. There had been dwarf-friends in the past… a few trustworthy outsiders…

The sun’s slow march across the sky had turned the day uncomfortably warm. Thorin bit back a yawn. He shifted, trying to ease the ache in his ribs without waking the halfling. How much time had passed? Bilbo stirred again, and this time he woke. The hobbit sat up with a groan, rubbing his neck. “I’m so sorry, that was terribly rude of me. I didn’t mean to fall asleep on you. Er, literally and figuratively, as it happens.”

“It’s fine,” Thorin muttered. “You need your rest.”

“So do you.” Bilbo was looking at him now, but Thorin carefully avoided his gaze. The dwarf prince slid Orcrist back into its sheath and stood. His muscles were stiff. They pulled as he tried to stretch, and he winced. “Are you all right?” asked the hobbit.

“I’ll be fine,” said Thorin, his tone gruff. “Gandalf’s spell brought me back from the edge of death. A few sore muscles are a small price to pay for my life.”

Bilbo looked as if he had a cheeky retort on the tip of his tongue, but he kept his mouth shut. “I don’t suppose you have any more of that kingsfoil. I wish I knew more about healing. Is there anything I can do?”

“It’s fine,” Thorin said again. The halfling had the frustrating habit of fussing over very minor problems. The dwarf made to remove his coat – this heat was sweltering – but the movement sent fresh pain stabbing through his ribs and chest. For a moment Thorin felt dizzy. He steadied himself on the boulder and waited for it to pass. Pain could be conquered.

It took him a moment to notice a pair of small hands tugging at the collar of his coat. “Could you duck down a bit?” Bilbo sounded irritated. “I can’t quite reach.”

Thorin blinked, and as the dizziness passed, he grudgingly let Bilbo help him with his coat. Once again he gave thanks that the other dwarves were asleep. It was not in Thorin’s nature to accept help from anyone, and this gesture, though kindly meant, was not welcome. It made him feel weak. Even when injured, Thorin Oakenshield was still a prince, and he could not tolerate weakness. The only way to conquer pain was by facing it head-on – by accepting it and pushing through. “Thank you,” he said after a moment.

“You’re quite welcome,” said the hobbit quietly, and he retreated to his own battered little coat, still spread on the ground alongside the boulder. Perhaps he had sensed Thorin’s resentment. The dwarf sighed and went to wake Gloin for the next watch.

\---

When Thorin woke, it was early afternoon. He sat up slowly. His aches were fewer and less severe than before. After a moment he rose and went to check on his companions. Oin, Dori, Bifur, and Bombur still slept, but the others were awake. Awake and dispirited. Their packs had been lost somewhere in the goblin kingdom, along with their food and bedrolls. Water they had in plenty – the river nearby was good to drink from – but it did nothing to soothe the dwarves’ hunger.

Bofur still had a few bits of dried meat in his pockets, and Kíli found some edible plants growing on the riverbank. Thorin chewed a handful of leaves and tried to think. His companions were dirty, battered, and hungry, but they were all alive. That was something, at least. “We should move on before nightfall,” he said, loud enough for everyone to hear. He caught Gandalf’s eye and added, “Perhaps you know a good route to take?”

“Yes, Master Oakenshield, I know a very good route. But I’m afraid I can’t follow it with you.” The dwarves muttered amongst themselves, but Thorin kept his silence, and eventually Gandalf continued. “By good management and good luck, I have seen you all safe over the mountains. Indeed, we are now a good deal further east than I ever meant to come with you, for after all this is not my adventure. I may look in on it again before it is all over, but in the meanwhile I have some other pressing business to attend to.”

The dwarves’ muttering turned to an outcry. Bilbo looked anxious, and Thorin couldn’t blame him. There was a sense of security about having the wizard in their Company. “Now, I’m not going to disappear this very instant,” said Gandalf loudly. “I can give you a day or two more. Probably I can help you out of your present plight, and I need a little help myself.” He looked disgruntled for a moment, then continued. “We have no food, and no baggage, and no ponies to ride. And you don’t know where you are. Now I can tell you that. You are still some miles north of the path which we should have been following, if we hadn’t left the mountain pass in such a hurry. Very few people live in these parts, but there is somebody that I know of, who lives not far away.”

“Elves?” asked Thorin swiftly.

Gandalf thumped his staff on the ground with impatience. “No, master dwarf, not elves! He made the steps on this great rock – the Carrock, I believe he calls it. He does not come here often, certainly not in the daytime, and it is no good waiting for him. We must go and find him, and if all goes well at our meeting, I think I shall be off and wish you good luck!”

“Very well. You have your own business to look after, and we must continue on our way,” Thorin said. “Still, we should leave now. I want to cover as much ground as we can before nightfall.”

“Perhaps we might take this opportunity to bathe, with the river so near?” suggested Balin. A few of the other dwarves nodded hopefully.

“It couldn’t hurt,” Thorin said. Perhaps it would lift everyone’s spirits, to be clean again. “I suppose we might as well.”

“Excellent,” said Fíli. “Kíli’s stench follows him like a cloud.”

“Oh, well, you’d be an expert on bad smells, seeing’s how you stink like goblin dung.”

“Enough,” said Thorin, and his nephews subsided, shooting each other furtive grins. “We wash, and then we move on. As fast as possible. I do not wish to linger here.”

There was some grumbling as the dwarves eyed the water, but they shed their layers. Thorin carefully undid his braids and left the beads with his clothes. Nakedness was no shameful thing among dwarves, but to be without braids was a more sensitive time. He didn’t know how Kíli could stand it all the time. Perhaps he would grow into it. Braids were as important as boots or a shirt, perhaps more so, and to have his braids undone made Thorin feel young and vulnerable.

Thorin went first into the water. The ford was fairly shallow, with clear water and a stony bed. His feet slipped over the stones and the current tugged gently at him as he waded deeper. Not as comfortable as a bath by the fireplace, but not unbearably cold. The rest of the dwarves followed, some hesitantly, other boldly. Gandalf waited on the bank with his pipe in hand and an amused expression.

The chill water piqued the ache in Thorin’s side. There was no soap, but he scrubbed with his hands at the dirt and sweat that had been ground into his skin. He ducked his head under and combed his fingers through his hair. It was refreshing.

There was a loud cry as Kíli slipped and lost his balance. Fíli laughed when his brother resurfaced gasping for breath. Thorin smiled as the brothers shoved each other. The rest of the dwarves were more sedate in their bathing, at least until Gloin started splashing, and Fíli and Kíli pushed Dwalin over. The bald dwarf roared in mock anger as he surged upright again, water sluicing off him.

Thorin spotted Bilbo off to one side. The hobbit was staring at the dwarves’ antics with apparent confusion. He was barely waist-deep in the river, and did not seem to go any further.

Well, as long as the halfling didn’t drown, it was none of Thorin’s concern what Bilbo did. Hobbits seemed to be quite fussy about their personal habits, for the most part. Alongside the burly, hairy dwarves, Bilbo seemed especially small and thin. Thorin shook his head and went back to scrubbing his grimy hair. Bilbo might not be imposing to look at, but his heart was as brave and loyal as any dwarf’s. Of that, Thorin was certain.

He heard Gandalf say something. Thorin shook the water out of his ears in time to catch Bilbo’s response. “Nothing’s the matter,” said the halfling, his voice strained. “Hobbits are not particularly fond of swimming, that’s all. Nasty business, this current.”

Of course, the water that tugged gently at Thorin’s body would seem much stronger to Bilbo. The dwarf prince fought the urge to go and steady the hobbit. Instead, he sloshed around until he was standing directly downstream of Bilbo. If the halfling slipped, Thorin would catch him.

Balin caught Thorin’s eye and nodded approvingly. Thorin didn’t say anything, but quietly finished washing while his sister-sons cavorted and splashed nearby. 

\---

Afterwards, the dwarves stretched out in the sun to dry. Bilbo put his clothes on immediately, as if ashamed of his body. The dwarves were happy to lie around and rest. Balin, Dwalin, and Gloin discussed weapons; a short distance away, Ori and Bombur were quietly wondering about food. Thorin pulled on his trousers and leaned against a rock. He kept his sword close to hand. They were as vulnerable now as when they had been sleeping, and someone had to keep watch.

Gandalf and Bilbo were talking in low voices, but Thorin could hear some of their conversation. “—nothing to fear, my dear hobbit,” the wizard was saying.

Bilbo shrugged and ducked his head. The water had turned his fair curls to brown. “One of my cousins drowned when we were quite young,” said the hobbit. “Few hobbits are comfortable in water, particularly rivers. The current moves too quickly. We aren’t natural swimmers.”

Gandalf patted the halfling’s shoulder and said something Thorin couldn’t hear. Bilbo shook his head. The halfling offered the wizard a small smile and wandered back to the spot where he’d left his belongings, close to the river but somewhat apart from the rest of the Company. 

Thorin looked down at his hands. In many ways, the hobbit was fundamentally different from the dwarves. This seemed to be one of those moments when the differences became painfully obvious. Thorin watched Kíli help Fíli re-braid his hair. Kíli grinned at something his brother said, and punched Fíli’s shoulder. Bilbo had no kin among the Company, but had he brothers at home?

He pushed the question aside and dug his beads from his trouser pocket. With stiff fingers he slowly plaited his hair again, one braid on each side of his face. A dwarf’s braids are a deeply personal business, and the ornaments worn in hair and beard always have special significance. For a moment, Thorin’s fingers remembered the long-lost feel of his nephews’ hair, back when they were too young to braid it for themselves. Fíli had always been a patient child, but Kíli was never able to sit still. Did hobbits have some tradition that ranked as important as braids? Thorin touched one of the beads next to his face and thought of the day his father had given it to him. 

Thorin was dissatisfied. Bilbo had defended him from his enemies and saved his life, yet he still clearly felt that he had no place in the Company. Before he could think too hard about what he was doing, the dwarf prince rose and wandered over to the riverbank. He sat down near the hobbit, but not very close. The sun was warm on his bare skin, and made him squint. All in all, he preferred the cool dimness of caves.

What was he supposed to say now? He mentally cursed himself for a fool. A king does not doubt himself. “How’s your hand?” Thorin asked eventually.

“Oh, it’s much better, thank you,” said the hobbit politely. His shirt was damp and stuck to his shoulders when he moved. Bilbo held up his hand, palm-out, and Thorin could see that the cut was healing well. “That kingsfoil you gave me really did the trick.”

“Good.”

They fell silent again. Thorin watched the water ripple across the stones. The sun glittered over the surface of the river like diamonds, but it didn’t shine with the same depth and luster as the Arkenstone. It had been many long years since Thorin had seen that gem, but he would never forget its brilliance. One hand went unconsciously to the bead his father had given him, and Thorin reminded himself why he had come over here.

“I wanted to ask why you defended me,” said the dwarf-prince. Bilbo looked startled. Perhaps Thorin had been abrupt.

“Oh. I don’t know. I didn’t spend a lot of time thinking about it, I just sort of… went ahead.” Bilbo shrugged and ran his fingers through his hair, which was drying to its normal blonde-brown. Few dwarves had fair hair. Fíli was the obvious exception to the rule, and Thorin found himself wondering if Bilbo’s hair was as soft as his sister-son’s.

Before his thoughts could wander any further down that path, the dwarf prince tugged at one of his braids. He pulled the bead from the end. The braid would unravel on its own, sooner or later. Thorin rolled the bead between his fingers and slowly said, “You gave no thought to your own safety?”

“Not really. Huh, sounds quite foolish when you put it like that. One hobbit, with one little sword. It’s a miracle we survived.” Bilbo chuckled, and Thorin had to smile.

Thorin held the bead up to the light. The gold caught the light in a pleasing way. For some reason, his heart hammered in his ears with unusual speed. “Please accept this as a sign of my gratitude,” said Thorin quietly. He held the bead out to the hobbit. “If I am ever in a position to repay the debt I owe you, then I will not hesitate to do so. Even if it should cost my life.”

“Oh, I couldn’t,” Bilbo said. He looked nervous. “I’m a plain sort of fellow. I’ve no real use for ornaments or jewelry. What would I do with it?”

“It is common among my people to honor those who have performed a great service.” _Take the bead. Please just take this, and then we can let this pass and all will be normal once more._ “I would be honored if you would accept it.” 

Bilbo studied his face for a moment. Thorin met his gaze steadily. Finally the hobbit nodded and held out his hand. The dwarf prince handed him the bead, in a brush of soft fingers against calloused ones.

The halfling studied the bead in silence. After a moment he said, “So does this mean I’ve got to grow a beard and braid it like you lot?”

Thorin smiled at the river.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is pretty long, compared to the others I posted (especially Chapter 1, dang, that's barely a blip on the radar).
> 
> The more I write and think about Thorin, the easier it is to understand and perhaps forgive some of his actions. He has a quick temper and he is very proud, and I wonder how much of that stems from what must have been a truly difficult life. He is quick to anger and slow to forgive. I think that when he was young, he must have had a very strong need to prove himself, and undoubtedly got into a lot of fights (perhaps with Men who disrespected his family and his honor). Now he’s older, if not much wiser, and his thirst for vengeance has turned into something of an obsession. By reclaiming Erebor, he will accomplish a few important things: recover his kingdom and his inheritance; prove himself as a leader; and earn tons of street cred. And give a giant symbolic middle finger to everyone who ever doubted him. Seriously, fuck those guys.
> 
> Most of Gandalf's lines here are taken directly from the Hobbit. I don't claim any kind of credit for copying them here. Just had to put that out there, although I doubt Tolkien's heirs are perusing AO3 in search of people to sue. I should also note that I have no idea if one of Bilbo's cousins actually drowned when they were little. It seems plausible, though.
> 
> As always -- comments and feedback are really appreciated, especially if you have input on dwarf culture/the Tolkien-verse, or even if you just want to talk about how goofy a bunch of skinny-dipping dwarves would be.


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A long walk leads the Company to Beorn's home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of Gandalf’s and Beorn's lines are taken straight from the book, as is the phrase “wide-armed oaks and tall elms” and a few others that I particularly liked. This isn’t English class so I skipped the in-text citations. I doubt any of you are here for my ability to use MLA formatting.
> 
> For BrienneofThrace, as always. Happy birthday, you glorious madwoman.

When everyone was dressed and armed once more, the Company continued onward. The grass was long enough that it brushed their knees as they marched under wide-armed oaks and tall elms. It was a hot, dry day. Their ears were filled with the rustle of the wind and with the faint humming of insects. Birds flitted between the trees.

Each stride brought them closer to their goal. Thorin tried to keep that thought foremost in his mind. Dust from the path filled his nose, and the dry air left him feeling parched after less than a mile. Bilbo walked at Gandalf’s side. The hobbit seemed to have an endless supply of bold questions and pert comments. Thorin was amused by that, and glad that he was not the only target of Bilbo’s cheeky remarks. Gandalf answered the hobbit’s questions patiently. He spoke of the tall rock, the Carrock, where the eagles had left them.

“He called it the Carrock, because carrock is his word for it. He calls things like that carrocks, and this one is the Carrock because it is the only one near his home and he knows it well,” said the wizard.

“Who calls it? Who knows it?” Bilbo asked.

"The Somebody I spoke of -- a very great person. You must all be very polite when I introduce you. I shall introduce you slowly, two by two, I think; and you must be careful not to annoy him, or heaven knows what will happen. He can be appalling when he is angry, though he is kind enough if humoured. Still I warn you he gets angry easily."

Apparently Thorin wasn’t the only one eavesdropping on this conversation, because there was an immediate uproar from the rest of the dwarves. The party came to a halt in the shade. The Company crowded around the wizard, demanding answers.

“What, is that the person you’re taking us to now?” 

“Couldn’t you find someone more easy-tempered?”

“Hadn’t you better explain it all a bit clearer?”

Gandalf thumped his staff on the ground and loudly said, “If you must know more, his name is Beorn. He is very strong, and he is a skin-changer.”

That was hardly useful information. Thorin was about to say so when Bilbo said, “What! A furrier?”

“Don’t be a fool, Mr. Baggins, if you can help it,” said Gandalf. 

Anger flared in Thorin’s heart. “It’s a fair question,” he objected. “What do you mean by skin-changer? Who is this… Beorn fellow? Where does he come from? Who are his people?”

The wizard frowned at him and said, "He is a skin-changer. He changes his skin; sometimes he is a huge black bear, sometimes he is a great strong black-haired man with huge arms and a great beard. I cannot tell you much more, though that ought to be enough. Some say that he is a bear descended from the great and ancient bears of the mountains that lived there before the giants came. Others say that he is a man descended from the first men who lived before Smaug or the other dragons came into this part of the world, and before the goblins came into the hills out of the North. I cannot say, though I fancy the last is the true tale. He is not the sort of person to ask questions of."

The wizard’s words stirred something in Thorin’s memory. He closed his eyes and tried to remember. Just out of grasp. A tale, lost in his childhood… he could almost hear his father’s voice, and a tale of the bear-men of old. Thorin frowned as he opened his eyes. “It’s getting late. Let’s keep walking,” he said.

As the Company moved on, Balin matched Thorin’s pace. “Laddie, did you lose one of your beads?” asked the older dwarf.

Thorin shrugged off his friend’s concern. It hadn’t been inappropriate to give Bilbo one of his beads, but he felt foolish about the matter now. Finally he said, “I gave it to Master Baggins. I wanted to honor him for his courage.” Balin smiled and fell back to walk with his brother Dwalin. Thorin had a feeling the entire Company would know about the matter by the end of the day.

He found himself wondering what Bilbo would do with the bead. It didn’t matter, really. He was just curious. Would the halfling take to braiding his hair like a dwarf? The thought made Thorin smile. When he looked back to check on his companions, he spotted Bilbo plodding at the rear. It had grown very hot. Thorin cleared his throat and marshaled his voice. “We’ll stop for a rest at the top of the hill,” he called. A small grove of oaks stood there. It provided shade, and the dwarves were more than happy to sprawl on the bare ground to rest their aching feet. 

They still had a long road ahead of them. Hunger twisted Thorin’s stomach, but he did his best to ignore it. Hopefully this Beorn fellow would feed them, though Thorin didn’t have high hopes. The skin-changer sounded inhospitable. The dwarf prince took a long drink from his waterskin. After a short rest, they would continue to walk. He observed his dwarves carefully while they rested. Few were in good spirits. Hunger, heat, and sore feet made for low morale.

\---

After a brief rest, they continued on their way. There was still much ground to cover before they could stop. Thorin tried to rein in his impatience, but it was not easy. He began to notice the ground changed as they walked on. Patches of purple and white wildflowers nodded among the tall grass, filling the air with a rich scent. All around them bees hummed about their business. From time to time, Thorin caught a faint whiff of honey.

From the back of the Company, he heard Bilbo say, “We could probably eat the clover.”

“Flowers?” said Gloin. He scowled. None of the other dwarves looked any happier at the prospect.

“Yes, keep your hat on, they are flowers and I’ve eaten them before,” said the hobbit. “You’ve got to be at least as hungry as I am, right?”

Thorin plucked one of the flowers and examined it. It was not one flower, as he’d thought, but many tiny ones, growing from a central point. There was nothing appetizing about it. 

Gandalf ended the debate, saying, “We are getting near. We are on the edge of his bee-pastures.” The dwarves exclaimed to each other, and hurried forward, buoyed by the promise of food and rest.

Thorin stepped to one side of the path and let Gandalf lead the rest of the dwarves past him. Bilbo was at the end of the line. Thorin stopped him and said, “Can we really eat this?”

“Yeah, we used to eat them when I was small.” Bilbo picked one of the flowers and put it in his mouth. He made a face, swallowed, and said, “Somehow I remember them tasting better.”

Thorin looked down at the flower in his hands. When he ate it, it was truly dreadful, but he kept his expression neutral. “It’s not bad.”

Bilbo stared at him for a moment, then smiled. “You’re a terrible liar, Thorin.”

The dwarf prince crossed his arms over his chest and frowned at the hobbit. “I am not a liar,” he growled.

“Oh,” said the hobbit, and his voice broke as a blush spread across his face. “I’m—I’m so sorry, I thought—it seemed like—”

Thorin interrupted him, saying, “Calm yourself, Master Baggins.” He patted the hobbit’s shoulder. “It was a joke.”

Confusion was writ large on Bilbo’s face. Then he smiled and shook his head, saying, “Well, that was unexpected, to say the least.” He picked another flower and ate it. “These really are quite bad, but I am terribly hungry.”

“From what I remember, hobbits normally eat very well,” Thorin remarked. They walked slowly onward, their companions far ahead of them.

“Mm, yes, I do like to keep a well-stocked larder. Dwarves don’t seem to eat very often, at least compared to hobbits, but you lot certainly manage to put it away when you do eat.” 

“I expect we’re all eager to sit down to a meal tonight,” Thorin said. “That is, if our intended host is willing to take us in.”

“Why wouldn’t he?” asked Bilbo. The hobbit plucked another flower, but instead of eating it, he tucked it into his buttonhole. “Gandalf trusts him. I’m sure he won’t turn us away.”

Thorin grunted. The halfling had a trusting nature. “I suppose we’ll find out,” he muttered as they reached the place where the rest of the Company was waiting. The dwarves were gathered loosely around Gandalf, under a row of tall oaks. Just past the oaks was a high, dense hedge, bristling with thorns. 

“You had better wait here,” Gandalf was saying. “When I call, come after me, but only in pairs, about five minutes between each pair of you. Come along, Mister Baggins! There is a gate somewhere round this way.”

Thorin caught a glimpse of Bilbo’s face as the hobbit dutifully followed the wizard. The fear in Bilbo’s eyes gave him a very strange feeling. He wanted to follow after the halfling, to lay a hand on his shoulder in reassurance. A strange feeling indeed, and he disliked it strongly. Instead, Thorin went to where Fíli and Kíli were sitting in the shade and sat near them.

“Uncle,” Fíli greeted him.

Kíli leapt straight in without preamble. “I hear you gave Bilbo one of your beads,” he said, his gaze flickering briefly to Thorin’s unraveled braid.

Thorin shrugged and said, “He performed a great service. I would not let it go unrewarded.”

Fíli nodded. “I would have given him one myself, if you hadn’t. I am thankful we didn’t lose you,” said the fair-haired dwarf.

“As am I,” Kíli added. His dark eyes were anxious. “How are you feeling?”

“Alive,” said Thorin dryly. His ribs ached, but it was a mere ghost of the pain he’d felt before. The dwarf prince leaned back against the trunk of a tree and stretched his legs out in front of him. “You are both well?”

“Yes,” they said, almost in unison, and he smiled.

“Good lads. I’m proud of you both. You’ve fought well on this journey.”

Fíli picked at a callous on his palm; Kíli scuffed the toes of his boots together. Both were grinning widely but trying hard to hide it. “Thank you, Uncle,” said Kíli . 

“Thank you,” Fíli echoed.

Thorin took a long drink from his waterskin. From the corner of his eye he saw his sister-sons elbow each other. Kíli muttered something. Fíli grinned and looked out across the sunny meadow. They were good lads. Thorin could not have loved them more if they were his own sons, and he knew that even as adults they sought his approval.

“Uncle,” said Kíli hesitantly, as Thorin set his waterskin aside. “Are… are you sure you’re all right?”

“Reasonably sure,” Thorin said. It was not like Kíli to question him this way. “Why do you ask?” 

The brothers exchanged a look, and Kíli continued as cautiously as he’d begun. “It’s just… you seem… different. And we wondered…” He didn’t meet Thorin’s eyes as he trailed off.

“When the orcs has us cornered, and you fought Azog, you were badly hurt,” Fíli said. His tone was gentle where Kíli ’s had been nervous, but even he did not seem eager to continue the conversation.

Thorin glared at him. He was not a young dwarf anymore, but he was as hardy as ever. “What are you saying?”

“Your head. The warg threw you a great distance, and your head hit the rock hard enough to split bone,” said Fíli . Now both of his nephews were avoiding his eyes. “And Gandalf healed you, but… well, you seem different.”

Thorin was silent for a moment, not sure if he should feel suspicious or insulted. Perhaps both. “Different how?” he growled.

Kíli shrugged, and with a tiny smile he said, “Happy.”

“We’re just worried that Gandalf made a mistake when he healed you,” Fíli said quickly.

“Please don’t be angry. We just wanted to make sure you’re all right.”

Fíli mumbled something and fiddled with one of his braids. Kíli ran his thumb repetitively over his bowstring, twanging it gently. Thorin studied them. He wasn’t sure how to respond. Part of him wanted to laugh at the very notion; he felt perfectly fine, as good as he ever had, and this conversation bordered on ludicrous. But his sister-sons must be very concerned indeed, if they mentioned their fears to him. He knew they wanted him to think them fearless, but it seemed that this time familial love had won out over pride.

“Well, you may lay your fears to rest. I am perfectly well,” he said at last. Kíli let out a rush of breath, as if he’d been holding back, but Fíli continued to toy with his braid. The gold bead – identical to Thorin’s, and to the ones that Kíli carried but did not wear – caught the late sun. Thorin suddenly wondered again about the bead he had given Bilbo. Would the halfling ever wear it? Not knowing the depth of its significance, would he carelessly lose it?

“We’re sorry, Uncle,” said Fíli quietly. “We did not mean to question you.”

“Enough. Stop apologizing. You are my sister-sons, not nosy neighbors. I… appreciate… your concern. If I have appeared overly cheerful today, then I beg your pardon,” he added in a low voice.

“We’re sorry,” mumbled Kíli . He looked ashamed, and Thorin felt his heart soften further.

“None of that, now,” he said. “I would not see you two so disheartened.”

They lapsed into silence. After a short while, someone’s stomach rumbled. Fíli laughed and elbowed his brother, who clutched his belly with an expression of great anguish. Thorin smiled and shook his head.

“It is good to see you happier,” said Fíli tentatively. “But you haven’t been like this in so long, we were afraid…”

“Thought your brains might’ve been scrambled,” muttered Kíli , and Fíli kicked him.

Thorin shook his head, saying, “Every step brings us closer to Erebor. If you have noticed a change in my mood, that is the cause.” 

His sister-sons exchanged identical looks of dawning realization. “Of course,” Kíli said.

“Forgive us,” added Fíli . He sounded relieved.

Thorin grunted. “Think nothing of it.”

\---

A piercing whistle came to them then, and Thorin knew it was Gandalf’s signal. He beckoned to Dori and the two dwarves hurried off, following the path the wizard had taken. They soon came to a gate in the hedge. There were rows upon rows of beehives, and the air was thick with the humming of bees. Thorin pushed the heavy, creaking gate open. On the other side lay a wide, well-worn path, leading to a house in the shelter of a grove of oaks. As they came closer, Thorin could see that there was a courtyard at the center, paved with stone. The great wooden house and its two wings formed three walls around it. The courtyard was apparently deserted but for the hewn trunk of a massive oak. Many of its branches had been lopped off and were stacked beside it. Thorin and Dori followed the sound of voices around the outside of the house, and they were greeted by the sight of Bilbo and Gandalf sitting on a wooden bench on the veranda. Before them stood a mighty Man – tall and wide, with thick arms and a wild black beard. This was Beorn.

“One or three you meant, I see!” said Beorn. “But these aren’t hobbits, they are dwarves!”

Thorin and Dori introduced themselves and bowed. Thorin was as polite as he knew how to be; as much as he disliked asking for help, they badly needed it from this stranger.

“I don’t need your service, thank you, but I expect you need mine. I am not over fond of dwarves, but if it is true that you are Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, and that your companion is respectable, then perhaps you may stay, if you are enemies of goblins and are not up to any mischief on my lands. What are you up to, by the way?” Beorn’s voice was loud and deep.

Gandalf answered for them, saying, “They are on their way to visit the land of their fathers, away east beyond Mirkwood, and it is entirely an accident that we are in your lands.” The wizard spun out the tale of their journey. Beorn was an impatient audience, and he often rudely interrupted, but as time went on Gandalf was able to slowly introduce the rest of the dwarves. Thorin could see the wizard’s wisdom in this; to put so many unwanted guests before Beorn would undoubtedly have caused the skin-changer to turn them all away immediately. But Beorn was fascinated by the tale. When Gandalf spoke of their fight with the orcs, and Azog’s appearance, their host growled and pounded his fist in his palm. 

“I wish I had been there!” he muttered, striding back and forth on the porch. “I would have given them more than fireworks!”

Gandalf went on to speak of the eagles’ rescue and the subsequent flight to the Carrock. By this time, the sun had sunk behind the Misty Mountains. Long shadows stretched across the porch, and the light was fading to darkness. When the wizard reached the end, Beorn nodded with satisfaction. “A very good tale!” said the skin-changer. “The best I have heard for a long while. If all beggars could tell such a good one, they might find me kinder. You may be making it all up, of course, but you deserve a supper for the story all the same. Let’s have something to eat!”

The dwarves enthusiastically and politely agreed, and their host led them indoors. It was quite dark inside the hall, but Thorin saw a long, wide room with a fireplace at the center, and a hole in the ceiling for the smoke. The fire was down almost to coals, but Beorn built it up. The dwarves left their coats on pegs by the door as they entered.

Beorn had animals as servants – beautiful horses, fine hounds, and snow white sheep. A low table was arranged for the dwarves’ use, with drum-shaped sections of logs for them to sit on. Soon they were all seated, with Beorn at the head of the table, and the meal they shared was plentiful and fine enough to satisfy everyone. Beorn’s house was pleasant – the flickering light cast a glow over the dwarves’ faces, and the mead was very good. 

Thorin listened as Beorn told them of the dangers to come. Wild lands lay on this side of the Misty Mountains. The Greenwood lay yet before them, dark and perilous; it was known as Mirkwood now, and its reputation had grown even more terrible in the years since Erebor had fallen. Thorin knew he must soon lead his Company into that wood. It would take much too long to go around – that was entirely out of the question. But as he chanced to catch Bilbo’s eye, the dwarf prince found himself wishing that they could find some way to avoid the dangers of Mirkwood. He wanted to spare the hobbit that hardship. Bilbo’s eyes were bright in the firelight, and his movements gentle. When a slight breeze made the torches gutter and the fire flicker, the halfling shivered. And a new thought entered Thorin’s mind – fed by the memory of their embrace on the Carrock, he found himself wondering how it would feel to hold Bilbo again. 

He shook his head and pushed his bowl of mead aside. The drink must be affecting him, if he was thinking this way. But the idea, now that it had been briefly entertained, refused to be dismissed, and Thorin found himself wondering what Bilbo’s hair would feel like in his fingers – to braid it, and slip a bead onto the end – and he shuddered. It was too intimate, too gentle, and he should not want it. The halfling had saved him, that was true, but they were not brothers, not even really friends, much less—

Thorin pushed his seat back and went to stand next to the fire. The meal had ended while he was thinking, and Beorn had gone away. Most of the dwarves still sat at the table, talking quietly and smoking. Thorin knew his thoughts were dangerous – he could not weaken himself by acknowledging them. But they were tempting, and perhaps that was the danger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oh god do I try


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dwarves rest at Beorn's house.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story hit ten thousand views soon after I started this chapter. I am not sure how to express the combination of gratitude and intimidation that I’m feeling. Thank you for reading, and I hope you’re not disappointed!

It looked to be another long night with little sleep. Thorin rolled over, and the straw mattress rustled with his movement. He could hear his companions’ soft breathing. Beds had been laid along the edge of the hall, and the tired dwarves had gone gladly to their rest. It made a pleasant enough change from sleeping on the hard ground.

The wide room was mostly dark. The dying firelight cast a red glow, and Thorin gazed into the coals. He was not inclined to think on his emotions over much, but tonight he was forced to do so. And quite a puzzle they were. Guilt, yes, and he could admit to fear. Because he understood now. Oh yes, he had realized his feelings for Bilbo Baggins, and they were wrong. He couldn’t even count the ways that they were wrong. For one thing, they were not the feelings one comrade should have for another. And if Bilbo and Bofur had formed some sort of relationship, it was not Thorin’s place to interfere. Most importantly, he was the true king of Erebor, and he must allow nothing to distract him from his goal. He had a responsibility to his people, to his ancestors. These damned feelings would be his ruin.

But more than that, Bilbo was a hobbit. He was not a dwarf. It was one thing for Bofur to take up with the halfling, but Thorin knew it would bring shame to his family if he were to do the same. Forming a romantic attachment outside his race would not be acceptable.

But if Bofur could do it, why not Thorin? He dismissed that thought. It seemed clear that Bilbo and Bofur had chosen each other, which made Thorin’s interests irrelevant. His fascination with the hobbit would pass. It was no serious matter. After the fight with Azog, he had found a new respect for Bilbo, and he must be confusing that gratitude for desire. 

With that decided, it was now time to sleep. He rolled over again and closed his eyes. Sleep. Sleep now. Sleep.

It didn’t work. Instead, his memory conjured the sensation of Bilbo’s fingers brushing against Thorin’s as the hobbit accepted the bead, and the sunrise over the Hidden Valley turning Bilbo’s hair reddish-gold. The halfling returning his embrace on the Carrock, and the slight smile when they parted – had Thorin imagined that smile? He groaned and buried his face in the pillow. This was madness.

He would have to control his feelings. It was the only course of action. He would treat the hobbit no differently than any other member of the Company – with respect, but nothing more. There were many dangers ahead, and he could not allow his focus to be disrupted.

When Thorin awoke at dawn, he still had the pillow over his face, and one hand clasped around the bead on his lone braid. 

\---

He was not the first to rise. When he went out to the veranda, Dwalin was already sitting on one of the benches.

“Thorin,” said the older dwarf. He made to rise, but Thorin motioned for him to remain sitting. They had been friends too long to stand on ceremony. “How did you sleep?”

“Well enough,” Thorin said. He settled on the bench next to his friend and looked out on Beorn’s garden. The bees were already at work among the flowers. The air was cool and fresh. 

Dwalin shook his head and said, “You’re lying. You look like you’ve been awake half the night. Was the bed too soft?”

“I’ve grown accustomed to sleeping on the ground. Have you seen our host this morning?”

“No,” said Dwalin. “And Gandalf has disappeared as well.”

Thorin grunted and shook his head. “Again.” Where had Gandalf gone? How long would they stay at Beorn’s house? He had not discussed it with the wizard, or with Beorn. Thorin would be glad to depart as soon as possible. Beorn was a generous host, but Thorin had to reach the Lonely Mountain before Durin’s Day. If he didn’t, he would have to wait an entire year before he could open the hidden door.

“Stop thinking so hard. It’s bad for you,” Dwalin muttered.

Thorin said, “I was just wondering where Gandalf has gone off to.”

“Gandalf’s gone?” They looked around as Gloin wandered out onto the veranda. “And what of our host?”

“We haven’t seen him,” said Dwalin with a shrug.

“Well, what about breakfast?” Gloin asked.

Thorin shook his head. “Beorn will provide something, I expect.”

A short while later, there were sounds of movement inside the hall. Beorn’s animal servants appeared, and breakfast was arranged on the veranda. Beorn himself was nowhere to be seen. It was a good meal – fresh milk, bread, honey, and fruit. When the rest of the dwarves woke, they set upon the food eagerly.

Thorin ate and drank his fill slowly. Bilbo was the last to rise, when the meal was all but over. Thorin glanced at him once, and carefully avoided looking at him after that, but his realization the night before had somehow focused all his attention on the hobbit. It was a strange, disturbing attraction. Moreover, it was distracting, and added to the irritation he felt at Gandalf’s disappearance. 

Thorin spent most of the morning restlessly wandering around Beorn’s house and gardens. It was still early, but it promised to be a hot day. The rest of the Company sensed his bad mood and avoided him as much as possible. Some of the dwarves took the opportunity to catch up on sleep, mend their clothes, and tend to their weapons. Fíli and Kíli were as energetic as ever. As the day dragged on, Thorin eventually settled in the shade outside the house. His nephews were sparring there – Kíli was losing very badly, having evidently forgotten most of what he had known about sword fighting. Thorin leaned against the house and tried to pay attention.

Fíli was clearly holding back, but Kíli still struggled to keep up with his brother’s maneuvers. Thorin shook his head. He and Dwalin had given both boys thorough training with a variety of weapons, but Kíli naturally gravitated to archery.

“He’s getting his arse handed to him,” said Dwalin in a low voice. He sounded amused.

Thorin hadn’t heard his friend approach. Instead, he had been foolishly wondering what Bilbo was doing at that moment. “He spends too much time on the bow, and not enough on hand-to-hand combat.”

“Aye.”

Kíli must have heard that, because he tossed his sword aside and threw a punch at his brother’s face. Fíli yelped and dropped his sword. He grabbed Kíli’s arm and twisted it behind his back, and in a moment the brothers were wrestling in the dirt.

“All right,” Thorin growled. He stalked over and hauled his sister-sons apart. Their tunics were dark with sweat, and Kíli was laughing so hard there were tears in his eyes. Fíli saw his uncle’s face, and his smile died, and he elbowed his brother roughly.

“Sorry, Thorin,” mumbled Fíli.

Kíli managed to contain his laughter, and said, “I was practicing my hand-to-hand combat. I know I’m rubbish with a sword, and I was tired of losing.”

Thorin shook his head. He could not stay angry when they looked so happy. They probably deserved a lecture on the importance of having a variety of combat skills, but they’d heard it from him and Dwalin many times before. Instead, Thorin picked up one of Fíli’s swords and swung it experimentally. It was shorter than Orcrist, and the balance didn’t feel the same. “Kíli, go rest. Fíli, you’ve been holding back. Perhaps you need a more challenging adversary.”

Kíli joined Dwalin in the shade. After a moment, Fíli nodded, but Thorin could still see uncertainty in his gaze. “I am not angry, Fíli,” Thorin said quietly. “If you want to improve, you need a skilled opponent.”

Fíli slowly picked up the other sword. “Don’t blame Kíli. He does take this seriously. He just gets frustrated because he’s not as good as I am.”

“He has to grow up someday,” Thorin told him. He stretched his shoulders and swung the sword to loosen his muscles. “You are my heirs. If anything should happen to me, it falls on you to guide and protect our people.”

“Nothing will happen to you,” said Fíli, and there was no doubt in his voice. “You’re my uncle, and I won’t let anything happen to you.”

Thorin had to laugh at that. “Isn’t it my job to protect you, Fíli?”

He shrugged and went into a defensive stance, sword raised. “We are kin. We protect each other. You can’t do it all on your own.”

“Are you going to fight, or spend the whole day chatting like old ladies?” Dwalin called from the shade. Thorin and Fíli looked at each other, and Fíli swung at his uncle’s shoulder.

It was a good fight. Thorin was pleased with his sister-son’s skill. Fíli moved quickly, and his arm was strong. Thorin’s ribs began to ache again. Sweat gathered on his skin. He parried a thrust, steel ringing on steel, and feinted towards Fíli’s left side. Fíli sidestepped, but the point of Thorin’s sword found his nephew’s unprotected neck.

Fíli went still, eyes flicking down to the blade at his throat. “I yield,” he said.

Thorin lowered the sword and tried to catch his breath. The muscles in his side cramped fiercely. “You were holding back,” he said.

“You are more skilled than I am,” said Fíli. His hair was darkened by sweat, and his face was red.

Thorin grunted. He had a strong suspicion that Fíli was the better swordsman, or would be someday. That was good. Now if only Kíli could exhibit the same focus and determination. Thorin glanced over to where his youngest kinsman was sitting in the shade. A few more dwarves had gathered to watch the practice fight. Gloin and Bifur were there, and Bilbo had joined them.

Thorin handed his sword to Fíli, who sheathed both weapons, and they went to join their companions in the shade. Dwalin tossed them each a waterskin. Thorin drank deeply. 

“Nicely done,” said Gloin, and Bifur gestured his agreement.

“That was amazing,” Bilbo said. 

Thorin shrugged, suddenly aware that his sweaty tunic was clinging to his skin. He passed the waterskin back to Dwalin. “I would not like to be Fíli’s enemy,” he said. “He has improved since our last practice.”

“Well, if I have, it is thanks to your guidance,” Fíli protested. “If it weren’t for you and Mister Dwalin, I wouldn’t know a sword from a butter knife.”

Dwalin chuckled and leaned over to ruffle Kíli’s hair. “And after all our hard work, this one still clings to his bow.”

Kíli ducked his head, smiling. “And where would we be without an archer? Admit it, you’d be lost without me.”

“Actually, I really wish we could lose you,” muttered Fíli, and Kíli punched his shoulder.

Thorin shook his head. Only half of his attention was on the conversation. He was still hyperaware of Bilbo’s presence. Like the dwarves, the halfling had set his coat aside, and with his sleeves rolled up he seemed perfectly at home in Beorn’s garden. Did it remind him of his beloved Shire?

“—of all of us,” Kíli was saying. “How did you manage to get past the goblins?”

Evidently he was talking to Bilbo, because everyone’s attention shifted to the hobbit as they waited for a response. Bilbo shrugged and looked down at his hands. “I was careful, that’s all,” he said. “Hobbits can move very quietly when we put our minds to it. And in the rush and confusion, they didn’t notice me sneaking about.”

“Well, you are very small,” said Gloin. 

“I think it’s amazing,” Kíli said firmly. He clearly liked the hobbit a great deal. Thorin was not surprised. Bilbo was a personable little fellow, with a deep wellspring of cheeky comments. Those were the qualities that Kíli would admire. “And you went toe-to-toe with Azog himself when Thorin was hurt. That’s the kind of thing people sing songs about.”

Bilbo looked appalled. “No, thank you! I will be perfectly satisfied if no one ever hears of that. I did nothing extraordinary or noteworthy. You all have done much greater deeds. Let’s hear of those now. I’m tired of talking about myself.”

That made the dwarves laugh, and they moved on to a different topic. But Thorin didn’t notice. The halfling’s modesty confused him; it seemed odd that he did not want to acknowledge his heroic act. There was no reason to be ashamed of it. Quite the opposite. Yet Bilbo avoided discussing it, and he still did not openly wear the bead Thorin had given him in gratitude. Was he that humble, or was there some larger reason for his unwillingness to admit his heroism?

Perhaps he regretted his actions. Thorin discarded that theory; the hobbit was not a coward, and he had lost nothing by saving Thorin. More likely, the hobbit could tell that Thorin’s feelings toward him had changed, and Bilbo was uncomfortable with the notion. No. That was nonsense. Thorin was certain that his feelings for the halfling were hidden.

“Thorin?” Bilbo was waving a hand in front of his face. The dwarf prince blinked and looked around. They were alone. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“Everyone else went inside to eat. Are you sure you’re all right?” Bilbo added.

“I’m a bit tired. Do not concern yourself,” said Thorin. He got to his feet slowly, trying to ignore the muscles pulling in his side. They walked back to the hall together. Thorin was careful to keep an adequate distance between them.

“Oh, did you sleep badly? I woke up in the middle of the night when I heard some great animal sniffing and growling outside the house. Did you hear it? I think it might’ve been Beorn, in bear form.”

“No, I didn’t hear it.”

“Oh.”

Inside, the hall was dark and cool. When Thorin’s eyes adjusted, he saw a fine meal laid for them, and his companions were already eating. He was glad to sit down, and even more pleased by the drinking bowl of mead he found waiting for him.

Fíli was sitting on his left, and he leaned over when Thorin sat. “Do you feel all right? You seemed distracted earlier,” he said in a low voice.

“I am fine,” Thorin growled. Fíli flinched slightly and nodded, avoiding his uncle’s gaze. Thorin sighed. “Forgive me. That was harshly said. I am well, but my wounds are not fully healed.” He indicated his sore ribs and took a long drink of mead.

 

The meal was much the same as the others Beorn had provided for them. Bilbo seemed content, but some of the dwarves grumbled that they would rather have meat. When they were finished eating, Thorin went outside again. The sun was high and hot, and its brightness bothered his eyes, but he found a comfortable spot to lie in the shade. With his head pillowed on his arm, and his sword within easy reach, he could almost relax. Beorn’s house was well guarded, Gandalf had said. When the wizard returned they would leave, and Thorin would once again be responsible for his companions’ safety. He should take this time now to rest. 

Bees hummed in the garden nearby; birds sang overhead. The scent of honey and wildflowers was strong. A light breeze moved across his skin. So he closed his eyes and slept, in the peace and safety of Beorn’s garden, and when he woke he didn’t remember his dreams.

\---

The sun had followed its path far into the western sky before Thorin woke. His neck and shoulders were stiff, and he groaned as he sat up. His head was clearer, though, and he felt good for having rested. Thorin began to walk back to Beorn’s house. It would be supper time soon. Perhaps Gandalf had returned by now.

As he strode through Beorn’s garden, he stumbled across Bilbo. Literally. The hobbit was crouched among a patch of tall yellow flowers, and Thorin all but tripped over him. He caught himself and stumbled sideways instead. Bilbo jumped to his feet. “Are you all right?” the hobbit asked.

“Yes, I’m fine,” said Thorin. He straightened his tunic and tried to will his heart to slow its rapid hammering. Bilbo’s eyebrows were drawn together with worry. His sleeves were rolled up, and his hands were dirty. “I didn’t see you down there. I hope I didn’t hurt you.”

“What? Oh, I’m—I’m fine, I mean, yes, quite… quite well,” the hobbit stammered. He fiddled with something in his pocket. “Ah, sorry, I don’t mean to babble. You took me by surprise.”

“What were you doing down there?”

“Oh, I was just… weeding,” said Bilbo. He shrugged self-consciously and avoided Thorin’s gaze. “I’m sorry I tripped you. Beorn’s flowers are wonderful, aren’t they? I don’t think I’ve seen this variety before, but it’s quite lovely. I wish I could take some of the seeds home for my garden.”

“I see.” Thorin could not stop himself from noticing the most pointless details. Brown eyes. Slender wrists. The soft stretch of the hobbit’s shirt across his shoulders. Thorin forced himself to look away.

Bilbo fiddled with something in his pocket. “So, are you… I mean… I was talking to Balin a short while ago.”

Thorin waited, but the hobbit seemed unwilling to continue. “Yes?”

“That is to say, Balin and I were talking. Right here. I didn’t know… I mean, I thought we were alone.”

“I did not overhear your conversation, Master Baggins,” Thorin said. 

Bilbo still seemed uneasy. He took something from his pocket. Thorin caught the glint of gold, and realized it was the bead. “The thing is, you see, Balin told me… oh, never mind. Forget I said anything.”

“As you like. I’m going back to the house now. I expect supper will be waiting for us.”

“Right,” said Bilbo, but he didn’t move. He turned the bead over in his fingers. “Thorin,” he said hesitantly. “Balin said that dwarves might exchange beads as a sign of friendship.”

“That is true.” Balin must have taken it upon himself to enlighten the hobbit as to the intricacies of dwarf culture. Thorin was not sure where this conversation was leading.

“He said that among warriors, there is no higher honor.” Bilbo glanced up at the dwarf prince’s face, and then quickly looked back down at the bead in his hands. “And that you… well, he said that it means you have pledged to… to lay down your life for me if I am ever in danger. Is that right?”

“It is,” Thorin said firmly. “You defended me when I lay at my enemy’s feet.”

Bilbo shook his head, saying, “Now, I don’t claim to be a warrior, much less some kind of hero. I don’t enjoy being the subject of discussion, and everyone is talking about how I fought off that orc for you. You don’t owe me anything, Thorin. Where I come from, one friend helps another and the debt is forgotten.” He held the bead out to Thorin. “Please, I should not have accepted this.”

Thorin was acutely aware of his own breathing, and the pound of blood in his ears. “No,” he said in a low voice. “Keep it.” He gently closed the hobbit’s hand around the bead. “I am proud to call you my friend, Bilbo Baggins.”

The halfling’s cheeks were red. “Please take this back. You owe me nothing, not a single brass button, much less your life. I will not be happy until we are on equal footing.”

“You are a stubborn fool, Master Baggins.” Thorin laid his hands gently on the hobbit’s shoulders. “I owe you my life. You must accept that. By all means, return the bead if you do not wish my friendship, but nothing will erase my debt.”

“If I don’t—if—oh, by the Valar, I swear you are the most frustrating dwarf in Middle-Earth!” Bilbo shoved the bead back into his pocket, where it clinked against something else. “If I don’t wish your friendship! Thorin Oakenshield, you need all the friends you can get. You’re not getting rid of me that easily.” He took a deep breath and looked Thorin square in the eyes. “All right. You think you owe me some great favor. I’ll let you believe that, if it comforts you. Now let’s go back to the house. It must be supper time by now, surely.”

They walked back through the garden, and the setting sun poured liquid light across their path. Bilbo seemed to be thinking hard; he didn’t speak, but his hand came up to touch one shoulder, where the dwarf’s hand had rested.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like Beorn's house. 
> 
> I really like dwarves. I mean, they're all into the tattoos and ornate hairstyles. They're fierce as fuck, and they just go balls to the wall with whatever they're doing. If you get one of them to be your friend, he will literally die for you, like how insane is that? Dwarves. They're batshit crazy and loyal to a fault. And you just know that dwarf women are exactly as tough and wild as the men.
> 
> Okay, that's all I've got at the moment. As always, drop me a note if you notice mistakes! Thanks for reading!


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Company leaves Beorn's house and rides for Mirkwood. Thorin fails to control his emotions.

They arrived at the house at almost the same time as Gandalf. He was dirty and looked very tired. “Where have you been all day?” Bofur asked the wizard.

“Aye, and where is our host?” said Dwalin.

“One question at a time, and none ‘til after supper! I haven’t had a bite since breakfast.” They all sat down at the table then, and by the time the meal was over, Thorin had a grudging respect for the wizard’s hunger. He had eaten two whole loaves and drunk at least a quart of mead. At last, Gandalf leaned back and took out his pipe. The room was quite dark by now. A chill breeze gusted through, causing the fire to flare briefly.

“So. Where were you?” asked Thorin, as patiently as he could.

But Gandalf still refused to answer any questions; he was too busy sending smoke rings to the rafters of Beorn’s hall. At last he said, “I have been picking out bear-tracks. There must have been a regular bears’ meeting outside here last night.” He puffed out a wisp of smoke, and it shaped itself into a ship that sailed up through another smoke ring. “I soon saw that Beorn could not have made them all: there were far too many of them, and they were of various sizes too. They came from almost every direction, except from the west over the river, from the Mountains. In that direction only one set of footprints led – none coming, only ones going away from here.

“I followed these as far as the Carrock. There they disappeared into the river, but the water was too deep and strong beyond the rock for me to cross. I had to walk miles before I found a place where the river was wide and shallow enough for me to wade and swim, and then miles back again to pick up the tracks again. By that time it was too late for me to follow them far. They went straight off in the direction of the pine woods where we had our pleasant little party with the orcs the night before last. And now I think I have answered your other question, too,” said the wizard. He fell silent, puffing slowly at his pipe while he stared into the fire. He sat that way a long while.

“What will we do if he leads the orcs down here?” Bilbo asked. It was a fair question, Thorin thought. There was no guarantee that Beorn would not be followed when he returned.

“Don’t be a fool, Bilbo! You had better go to bed, your wits are sleepy.” The wizard chuckled. Bilbo looked hurt for a moment, though he quickly hid it. 

Thorin glared at Gandalf, but said nothing. It pained him to do so. He had to hide his feelings for the hobbit; he must do nothing out of the ordinary. As he reached for his bowl of mead, he caught Balin’s eye, and his old friend was giving him a considering look. 

When Gandalf refused to say any more on the subject, the dwarves settled down for the night. Thorin dragged a bench over to the fire. He was not tired. Rather, his thoughts consumed him: Did Balin suspect his feelings for the halfling? What would happen if someone discovered his secret? He had been incautious today, and could afford no more mistakes. He must avoid Bilbo as much as possible.

There were more urgent matters to consider, however. He wanted to leave Beorn’s house tomorrow, and after that it would be only a few days’ walk until they reached the edge of Mirkwood. He could not lose focus now, not at the edge of his enemies’ stronghold. A perilous path led through that place. They would have to be on guard. Dark and deep, and teeming with Thranduil’s elves – Thorin knew little else of the dangers of Mirkwood, but there was a deadly enchantment at work there. It was good for his dwarves to rest now. They would need all their strength and courage when they entered the wood.

To ease his mind, he brought Orcrist out and methodically cleaned the flawless blade. Gandalf sat on the other side of the fire, but they did not speak. Even with Glamdring belted to his waist, and his staff close to hand, did the wizard fear for the future? Thorin had heard that wizards lived many centuries. They could see across time and distance. They were stewards of Middle-Earth, and had higher concerns than most folk. Thus, Thorin had no illusions about Gandalf’s motivations. The wizard had involved himself in Thorin’s quest not out of kindness or friendship towards the dwarves, but because it must be important in the vast, inscrutable workings of history. 

And he had insisted on bringing the hobbit. Why was that? Thorin could drive himself mad trying to decipher Gandalf’s reasoning. Hobbits, those peaceful farmers – what role could they possibly have in the higher workings of fate? His gaze was drawn irresistibly to the dark corner where Bilbo lay sleeping, the firelight playing over his ruddy hair. It was wrong to underestimate hobbits. Thorin had finally learned that lesson. They were a remarkable race, with deep reserves of courage, and an unimpeachable sense of honor. Or was that just Bilbo?

His hand slipped across Orcrist’s edge, and he scowled as the blade bit into his palm. Blood welled from the cut, but it wasn’t deep. He had given the last of his athelas to Bilbo – was it really only a few days ago? So much had changed since then.

He looked up when Gandalf came around the fire. “Show me,” he said quietly, and Thorin held out his hand. The wizard muttered something. When the dwarf prince looked at his hand again, the blood was still there but the cut had vanished. “You seem troubled, Thorin.”

Thorin grunted and shook his head. “I am tired. And so must you be.” He sheathed his sword as quietly as he could, and went to bed.

\---

He woke partway through the night. There was a growling and a snarling outside the house, as of wild animals, and Thorin had his sword half out of its sheath before he was fully awake. Necessity had made him a light sleeper. But when he was more aware of his surroundings, he quietly slid the blade home again. They were in no obvious danger. Gandalf was still sitting up by the fire, and Thorin could see the light reflected in his eyes.

Well, wizards may not need to sleep, but dwarves do. Thorin closed his eyes and rolled over.

\---

They were all woken the next morning by Beorn himself. “So here you all are still!” said the skin-changer. He laughed. Breakfast was waiting for them at the table, and when they went to sit, Beorn spoke to Bilbo. “Little bunny is getting nice and fat again on bread and honey,” he said, and poked the hobbit’s waistcoat most disrespectfully.

Bilbo looked disconcerted. Thorin struggled to keep his temper. It would be a poor idea to rebuke their host, though he badly wanted to. He took his seat at the table and tried to surreptitiously gauge the halfling’s mood. Bilbo seemed cheerful enough, especially with a heavily laden plate in front of him. That was good.

Beorn was in a fine humor. He shared many amusing stories, and seemed pleased to spend time with the dwarves. Thorin did not have to wonder at that for very long, because Beorn himself shared the reason for his good mood. The skin-changer had gone over the river and right up into the mountains. From the burned shell of the pine grove he had discovered the truth of the dwarves’ story, but he had found even more than that. While traveling in bear form, Beorn had caught a goblin riding a warg, and from it he had learned many important things. Orcs and goblins alike were still hunting for the dwarves, the latter out of anger over the death of the Goblin King. “It was a good story, that of yours,” said Beorn, “but I like it still better now I am sure it is true. You must forgive my not taking your word. If you lived near the edge of Mirkwood, you would take the word of no one that you did not know as well as your brother or better. As it is, I can only say that I have hurried home as fast as I could to see that you were safe, and to offer you any help that I can.”

“We are grateful indeed,” Thorin said, getting over his surprise.

“I shall think more kindly of dwarves after this,” Beorn went on. He chuckled to himself. “Killed the Goblin King!”

“What did you do with the goblin and the warg?” asked Bilbo.

“Come and see!” Beorn led them out of the house. A goblin’s head was stuck on a spear outside the gate, and a warg-skin was nailed to a tree just beyond.

Thorin was glad now to have Beorn as an ally. The skin-changer was a fierce fighter, that much was clear. They returned to the house, where Gandalf told Beorn the whole story of their journey and the reason for it.

“I will do what I can for you,” Beorn said at last. “I will provide ponies for your journey to Mirkwood, and I will give you enough food to last for some weeks. Water you will not need to carry, at least on this side of the forest, for there are streams and springs along the road. But your way through Mirkwood is dark, dangerous and difficult. Water is not easy to find there, nor food. There is one stream I know there, which crosses the path, black and strong. You should neither drink nor bathe in that stream, for I have heard that it carries an enchantment of great drowsiness and forgetfulness.”

The dwarves muttered among themselves at that. Thorin’s mind raced. The Company would have to be very careful with their food and water. There would be no hunting or foraging in Mirkwood; nothing there was wholesome to eat or drink.

Beorn leaned forward then, and he spoke gravely. “In the dim shadows of that place, you must tread carefully. If you value your lives, you must not stray from the path for any reason. That is all the advice I can give you. Beyond the edge of the forest I cannot help you much; you must depend on your luck and your courage, and the food I send with you. At the gate of the forest I must ask you to send back my horse and my ponies. But I wish you all speed, and my house is open to you, if ever you come back this way again.”

This prompted the dwarves to offer their sincerest thanks, which the skin-changer waved away impatiently. Beorn’s serious words made Thorin’s heart sink. What other enchantments and dangers waited for them within Mirkwood? And after all the perils of the road, the dragon still waited at the end. Though Smaug had not been seen for many years, Thorin knew the worm still lived, and they would have no easy time destroying him.

The Company spent the morning making final preparations for their departure. Beorn gave them nuts, flour, dried fruits, and honey for their journey, as well as twice-baked cakes that would keep a good long time. The dwarves filled their water skins at his well. Weapons and armor were double-checked. Kíli replenished his quiver from Beorn’s supply of arrows. When it was time for the midday meal, everyone was prepared to leave Beorn’s house, though some were less happy about it than others. It was a place of comfort and peace. Bilbo, in particular, seemed disappointed, but Thorin kept his distance.

After a final meal at Beorn’s table, they mounted the ponies he had lent them and said their farewells. Following his advice, the Company would not make for the main road to the south, which lately saw heavy traffic by goblins and orcs. That road was also said to be overgrown and disused at the eastern end, and led to impassable marshes. Instead, Thorin and his companions would ride north, to a place where Mirkwood edged on the Great River. They would find there a little-known path through Mirkwood that led almost directly towards Erebor.

They would have to ride swiftly. The orcs were still a threat, though Thorin hoped to lose them when the Company crossed into Mirkwood. “They will not dare to cross the Great River for a hundred miles north of the Carrock,” said Beorn, “Nor to come near my house, but I should ride fast; for if they make their raid soon, they will cross the river to the south and scour all the edge of the forest so as to cut you off, and wargs run swifter than ponies. You are safer going north, for that is what they will least expect, and they will have the longer ride to catch you. Be off now, as quick as you may!”

Thorin glanced at his companions. There was tension in every dwarf’s movements, and more than one pony tossed its head and sidled impatiently. Bilbo was patting his pony’s neck nervously. The hobbit was a poor rider – would he be able to keep up with the dwarves? As Thorin made his final bow to Beorn, the dwarf prince pushed his fear aside. He could make no special allowances for Bilbo. The halfling would either keep up, or fall behind. 

Thorin set a good pace. His pony had a smooth gait and was eager to run, and he gave it its head. The Company followed his lead and they galloped for a while. It was another warm day, and the air was sweet with the smell of clover and honey. They would make quick progress on horseback. Every step brought them closer to Erebor, and that thought burned in Thorin’s mind.

They rode in silence, without conversation or song. At last the ground became rocky and uneven. Their pace slowed, for the sake of the ponies’ legs, but Thorin’s impatience needled at him. He paused to gauge his companions’ condition. The dwarves were none the worse for the hard ride, and their ponies were spirited. Bilbo trailed along near the back of the line, with Gandalf. The wizard’s long-legged horse had no trouble keeping pace with the ponies, but Bilbo looked wretchedly uncomfortable. Thorin’s gaze met the hobbit’s briefly. The dwarf turned his pony and cantered back to the head of the Company. With enemies tracking them, there was no time to waste. 

The fading sun cast its light around them. When they reached flat ground again, he nudged his mount into a gallop again. Its hooves beat a rapid tattoo on the ground, matching the urgency rising in Thorin. _No time to waste. No time to waste. No time to waste._ But they could not run all the way to Mirkwood. Even Beorn’s fine ponies needed to rest, and dwarves were not inexhaustible. Thorin at last let his pony ease into a trot and then down to a walk. It blew heavily, and its withers were sweaty.

Thorin shook his hair back. He turned to check on the rest of the Company. Some of his dwarves were comfortable in the saddle – others, less so. Oin and Gloin clearly would have preferred to ride more slowly, and Bombur looked miserable. Balin slowed his mount and rested a moment beside Thorin. “We’ve made good time,” said the older dwarf gently.

“We could’ve made better,” Thorin said, but he didn’t argue with his friend. To push the ponies and the dwarves any harder would have been too much. 

When Bilbo and Gandalf had ridden past, Balin cleared his throat and said, “Majesty, is everything all right?”

Thorin tore his gaze from the slight, hunched figure of Bilbo Baggins. “What are you talking about, Balin?”

“You seem distracted. I hope there’s nothing worrying you unduly.”

He nudged his pony’s sides, and it walked forward. Balin followed. They trailed some ways behind the group. After a moment, Thorin said, “I am concerned about Mirkwood. It is Thranduil’s domain, or it used to be, back when it was known as the Greenwood.”

“You think he’ll cause trouble?”

Thorin grunted. “His very existence causes me trouble. And now, entering his kingdom, I can’t help but wonder if we’re courting disaster.” He sighed and added, “But there is no other way. We must reach the hidden door by Durin’s Day, or all our haste will have been for naught.”

For a moment, Balin was silent. Then he quietly said, “Did the halfling try to give your bead back?”

Anger prickled at Thorin, and he urged his pony onward without answering. Leave it to Balin to get to the heart of the matter. The older dwarf saw things clearly, and observed where other dwarves would ignore. No one would question the propriety of Thorin’s gift to the hobbit, but it seemed clear that Balin suspected some deeper attachment. Thorin had evidently been careless. He must have shown some sign of his interest in the hobbit. His mind darted back to the conversation with Bilbo in the garden the day before; had Balin overheard them? But Thorin had said nothing to indicate his inclination.

He guided his pony to the head of the Company once more. Dusk was falling. “We’ll make camp there for the night,” Thorin called out, pointing out a rock outcropping some distance ahead. The peaks of the Misty Mountains stood out starkly against the sunset. It made him uneasy to stop this close, when he knew the mountains were a goblin stronghold, but with night coming on he could do little else. The ponies would need a good rest after the hard day’s ride, as would the dwarves.

Bifur and Ori looked after the ponies while the rest of the Company set up camp. Bilbo groaned as he slid out of the saddle, and Bofur helpfully steadied him, one hand lingering on the hobbit’s arm. Thorin was careful to keep his expression neutral. It was more difficult to keep himself from resenting Bofur. 

They could not risk a fire. Luckily it was a warm night, and they ate the travel bread Beorn had given them. It was good – dense, sweet, and studded with nuts and dried fruit. When they ate, Thorin made sure he sat as far from Bilbo as possible. However, he couldn’t help but notice the hobbit’s pained, tired expression. It had been a hard ride. 

Dwalin took the first watch. The rest of the dwarves huddled in the lee of the rock, and before long Thorin could hear them breathing steadily and snoring quietly. He had pushed them hard today, but it felt good to make so much progress. They would reach the edge of Mirkwood in two days’ time, if their luck held. Whether that luck was good or bad remained to be seen, he thought sourly.

Someone muttered sleepily – Bilbo’s voice. Thorin sat up cautiously and watched as the hobbit rolled over and settled back into his dreams. All day, Thorin had been careful. He had avoided thinking about the halfling, avoided looking at him. They hadn’t spoken more than a handful of words. But now, with nothing to distract him, Thorin’s mind freely tormented him. The encounter in the garden yesterday – how distinctly he remembered the way Bilbo’s face flushed when their hands touched. _You’re not getting rid of me that easily,_ the hobbit had said. Bilbo had proven himself to be a sturdy and dependable fellow. Not to mention stubbornly loyal. Thorin swallowed when he thought of Bilbo’s shoulders under his hands, with only thin cloth separating skin from warm skin.

\---

Thorin slept badly and woke early, just before dawn. White mist lay upon the ground, and dew glistened on his blanket. He rose carefully and went to relieve himself before returning to the camp. When it rose, the sun was blood red. It soon woke the dwarves. They ate a quick meal of travel bread, readied the horses, and departed while the shadows were still long.

Their pace was somewhat slower than the day before. If he could have, Thorin would have galloped to the edge of Mirkwood without stopping, but he set a careful pace and stopped regularly to rest. The land was flat and grassy, for the most part, with scattered trees. They saw no animals save for birds. 

When the sun was low in the sky again, they stopped for the night. A stand of broad-limbed oaks sheltered them, and the tall grass would hide them from sight. Thorin took the first watch. As his companions settled down to sleep, he took a seat with his back to the trunk of a tree. The stars were rich and bright. They sparkled like distant diamonds. He picked out a few constellations, and remembered telling their stories to Fíli and Kíli when his sister-sons were small.

As the night deepened, the air became quite cool. Thorin pulled his coat a little tighter and put his hands in his pockets. His warm bedroll would be very welcome in a few hours, and it would be Nori’s turn as sentry.

Someone muttered, and there was movement among the sleeping dwarves. A slight, beardless figure sat up. Thorin felt the familiar lurch in his midsection when he realized it was Bilbo, and quickly looked away. What was that constellation in the west? He distracted himself by trying to remember its story. 

It was pointless. Bilbo picked his way carefully between the sleeping dwarves and joined Thorin, sitting down a short distance from the dwarf prince.

“Trouble sleeping?” Thorin asked. It was only polite.

Bilbo nodded. He wore his blankets around his shoulders like a cloak to ward off the chill. “Just a bad dream,” said the hobbit. “I’ll keep watch if you want to rest.”

“I’ll be fine. Go back to sleep, Master Baggins.” The hobbit’s hair was tousled, and his eyelids heavy with sleep. Thorin forced himself to study the night sky. He could control his feelings. In time, his attraction to the hobbit would fade, and he would be glad that he had not acted on it.

“Thorin, I’m sorry I tried to give the bead back,” Bilbo said eventually. “I didn’t mean to… well, offend you.”

“Don’t let it trouble you. I had forgotten the matter.”

“Oh, really? Because I couldn’t help but notice that you’ve been ignoring me since then,” said Bilbo tartly.

Thorin had nothing to say to that. It was true that he had made a conscious effort to avoid the halfling’s company. He could not bring himself to explain that. “It may have escaped your attention, but I have been rather busy. This quest has occupied much of my mind. Our stay in Beorn’s house was a restful interlude, but I can allow nothing to distract me from my purpose.”

The hobbit was silent for a moment. At last he said, “Forgive me. I suppose that was me questioning your leadership again, wasn’t it?” He sighed. “I am sorry.”

“Think nothing of it.” Thorin just wanted this conversation to be finished. It was not right for him to desire the hobbit as he did. His self control was being tested strongly; he wanted nothing more than to put his arm around Bilbo’s shoulder and draw him in, close and warm. But he doubted Bilbo would welcome any such attentions. It pained him to withhold his feelings, but it was necessary.

When he glanced at the hobbit again, Bilbo was fiddling with his hair. His fingers fumbled, and he muttered, clearly annoyed. “What, is something stuck in your hair?” Thorin asked.

“Oh, it’s nothing,” said Bilbo quickly. He ran his fingers through his curls and shook his head. “I was thinking about braiding it so that I could wear that bead you gave me. I don’t want it to fall out of my pocket, you see.”

There was a peculiar tightness in Thorin’s chest. He folded his arms over his chest and cleared his throat. “You seem to be having some difficulty.”

“Yes, I haven’t braided anything since I made daisy chains when I was small,” Bilbo said. He rolled the bead between his fingers and held it up so it caught the starlight. The gold had a dull glint – nothing compared to the brightness of the hobbit’s eyes. “How do dwarves do it?”

“We learn as children,” said Thorin. “I braided Fíli and Kíli’s hair until they were old enough to do it for themselves. It is not difficult.”

“Would you mind showing me? Only I’m making rather a mess of it myself.”

Thorin sighed. The prospect of braiding Bilbo’s hair should not make his heart beat unevenly. “It is… a familiar act, Master Baggins.”

The hobbit caught on quickly. “You mean like something family members do?” he asked.

“Usually, yes.”

“I’m sorry,” said Bilbo. He sounded uncomfortable, and Thorin didn’t dare look at him. “I really had no idea. I didn’t mean to suggest something… well, overly familiar.”

“Please don’t trouble yourself,” he said quietly. “You could not have known. Here,” he added, and turned to face the hobbit. “We have agreed that we are friends. I will teach you how to braid your hair, in the manner of dwarves.”

“Well…” Bilbo trailed off reluctantly. He stared down at the bead in his palm, then looked up at Thorin. Uncertainty was plain in the hobbit’s face.

“I would not offer if it displeased me,” said Thorin, his tone curt. He separated out some of his own hair into sections and turned so that Bilbo could watch what he was doing. Slowly, the dwarf prince braided his hair while the hobbit observed.

“I think I understand,” Bilbo said when Thorin had reached the end. He reached up to his own head and arranged some of his hair to begin braiding. But the hobbit’s fingers, normally so nimble, moved clumsily as he wove the strands together. The braid was uneven and lumpy when he finished. He swore and undid it. “It’s much more difficult than I remember. I suppose I’ll have to practice on the ponies before I get it right.”

Thorin struggled with himself. It would not be right to braid the hobbit’s hair. Bilbo was an adult, and he was not Thorin’s kin. They were comrades. Friends. Bilbo did not understand the intimacy of braiding among dwarves. It would be inappropriate for Thorin to touch Bilbo in that way. Yet he could hardly stop himself; he had never desired anything as strongly as he did this. To feel the hobbit’s hair between his fingers – the closeness of his skin – the warmth –

He cut off his thoughts and spoke quickly. “Perhaps that would be best. But if you do not wish to lose the bead, you could string it on this.” Thorin dug a spare bootlace out of his pocket and held it out. “At least until you learn to braid your hair.”

“Oh, thank you.” Bilbo took the bootlace, and when their hands met, fingers to palm, Thorin had to bite back a sigh. He hated himself for craving this contact. He was wrong to want this. Bilbo strung the bead on the bootlace and tied it around his neck. His touch lingered on the bead where it lay on his sternum, the engraved gold catching the starlight.

Thorin let out a measured breath. The ordeal was over, and he had controlled his impulsive desire to touch Bilbo’s hair. He rubbed a hand wearily across his eyes and leaned back against the tree once more. 

The hobbit yawned and scooted closer until he was leaning against the same tree. “How much longer d’you think it’ll be until we reach Mirkwood?” he asked.

“Two days, if we ride hard. And we will have to ride hard.”

Bilbo groaned. “I was afraid of that,” he said, resignation clear in his quiet voice. “What will happen when we get to Mirkwood?”

Thorin was silent a moment before replying. “I have not gone into that forest since I was very young. It was once called the Greenwood, and in those days it was the domain of the Elvenking Thranduil.” He felt a customary flash of anger when he pictured the elf’s face. “I have not heard news of him in many years. The Greenwood has since been renamed Mirkwood, and it is said to have become a dark and perilous place.”

“Do you think Thranduil is dead?”

“No. He has likely retreated to some safe haven. He was always selfish and craven,” Thorin muttered. His voice sounded low and thick with hatred even to his own ears.

Bilbo drew a deep breath and said, “So. A deep, dark forest, stuffed with unknown dangers and potential enemies. That sounds like the kind of thing dwarves eat for second breakfast.”

“Indeed.” Thorin was distracted, by the gentle press of the hobbit’s shoulder against his arm. Was Bilbo doing that on purpose? 

The halfling yawned again. “Excuse me. I meant to stay awake and keep you company while you had sentry duty, but I’m afraid I’m doing a pretty poor job of it.”

“Not at all,” said Thorin quietly. “I’ve enjoyed your company.”

“That’s just as well. You’re stuck with me.” Bilbo yawned again, and shuffled slightly closer as he pulled his blankets tighter around himself. The bead clinked softly against the buttons of his coat. 

Thorin took a deep breath and let it out slowly. He could control his desire. It was a shameful thing, and he would not let it conquer him. They sat together in silence, the hobbit leaning slightly on the dwarf. Gradually, Bilbo’s breathing became even and slow. His head tilted to rest on Thorin’s arm. Thorin kept perfectly still for a long time. What was the hobbit dreaming of? His home in the Shire? The horrors he had seen on this quest?

When the time came for Thorin’s watch to end, he shifted slightly and nudged the hobbit with his elbow. Bilbo mumbled and moved closer. After a moment his breathing steadied again. Hesitantly, Thorin eased his arm around the hobbit’s shoulder. Bilbo was so small. He had shown his courage, but he still needed protection. Many hazards lay before them. Thorin feared he could not shield the hobbit from all of them, but he had to try. He owed Bilbo his life.

With a wide yawn, Thorin realized his turn as sentry should have ended long ago. Though he needed to rest, he was loath to move away from Bilbo. It felt oddly natural to have his arm around the hobbit. This was a selfish indulgence, however, and one he could never repeat. Thorin gently moved his arm from Bilbo’s shoulders. The movement woke the hobbit, and he blinked slowly before sitting up again.

“Good gracious, I am terribly sorry,” Bilbo said. “That’s the second time I’ve fallen asleep on you. I hope you can forgive me. I had no intention of intruding.” He didn’t meet Thorin’s eyes as he spoke.

“There was no intrusion. Please don’t let it trouble you, Master Baggins.” Thorin stood slowly, his muscles protesting. He woke Nori for the next watch, and went to his bedroll feeling tired and frustrated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First of all, I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to finish this chapter. I’m averaging like three to five hundred words per day, and I’m frustrated with what I have produced. I’ve been struggling with Bilbo’s and Thorin’s voices – inventing so much dialogue has made me a little unsure. To me, the last couple chapters have felt like a drastic departure from Thorin’s kingly, distant demeanor. Does it seem like he’s changed suddenly? I’ve spent so much time on this that I’m not sure how subtle the transition is. 
> 
> As usual, most of Gandalf’s and Beorn’s lines are taken straight from the book. Forgive me. I’m more interested in continuing the story than in spending four hours paraphrasing every line of dialogue.
> 
> Before I wrote this, I had no idea how fucking hard it is to describe the act of braiding hair. And was Bilbo doing some awkward flirting there? I am heartily ashamed of myself.


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin sets a grueling pace on their ride to Mirkwood. Fíli is nice to Bilbo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey folks, once again I am very sorry that it’s taken me so long to update. I don’t really have a good excuse. Things have been unexpectedly hard lately. I’m still trying to work through my dumb problems. I have a lot of words left in me, though, and even though I’m struggling, I promise I will keep working on this story.
> 
> I stole the phrase “eaves of Mirkwood,” because the imagery appeals to me. I also purloined the dialogue that occurs at the edge of Mirkwood. Forgiveness, I beg of you.

When dawn found them, Thorin was the first to wake. Bombur was keeping watch, his eyelids drooping with tiredness. 

“Anything to report?” asked Thorin as he rolled up his blankets.

“No, Majesty,” Bombur said. He struggled to his feet and yawned. The rest of the Company soon woke, and they quickly packed their belongings and mounted their ponies. Thorin led them north at an easy pace. His legs were sore after yesterday’s ride. The rest of the dwarves grumbled quietly among themselves, but said nothing to Thorin directly.

The morning wore away as they rode. Thorin nudged his pony up into a steady canter. He was well aware that he was pushing too hard, asking too much. Even with aching legs and an empty belly, he was restless. He wanted to ride further, faster, rough and ragged with confusion and anger and desire. No longer was he certain in his purpose.

His foul mood was readily perceived by his companions, and when they stopped to rest, the dwarves were subdued and quiet. Thorin sat a little apart from everyone. He barely tasted the travel bread as he ate, focused instead on controlling his feelings. This intense interest in Bilbo Baggins must be refocused; he had to turn this energy back to his quest for Erebor. In his mind, he saw again the wide halls and gracious living quarters of his long-lost home. Elegance was tempered by practicality in that place. Stone had been carved and fitted into place to build a fortress and a kingdom. Had his grandfather’s throne – his throne, by rights – survived the worm’s occupation?

Yet even his memories were not free of the hobbit’s influence. He considered Erebor now as he never had before, through the lens of the Shire. How would his kingdom compare to the home Bilbo had left behind? Surely the vast wealth he remembered would not fail to impress. Thorin shook his head and went to a nearby stream to refill his waterskin. Bilbo had agreed to join the Company for one-fourteenth share of the treasure, which meant he was not above material concerns, but Thorin knew that above all else, the hobbit would prefer to return to his quiet country life. The mountain would seem a dark, hard place, next to Bilbo’s peaceful home.

When his waterskin was full, he went back to his companions. The hobbit’s opinion of Erebor mattered little. More important was the quest to reclaim the mountain. Thorin mounted his pony and the Company rode out. The forest was a dark line before them, little more than a low smudge. He would lead his companions through that forest, and to the mountain, and there would be no further distractions.

 

\---

 

Thorin’s pony stumbled once and recovered, and it was only then that he slowed the Company’s pace. They were nearer to Mirkwood now. He guessed that they might reach it today, or tonight. Though he wanted nothing more than to gallop onward, Thorin forced himself to calm down and keep an easy pace. He would gain nothing by running his companions into the ground, exhausting them right before entering Mirkwood. Long grass grew as high as the ponies’ heads. Thorin was sweating in the warm afternoon.

They had another short rest, then rode on. Dusk deepened in the west but Thorin did not stop, and his companions were forced to follow, into the night and beneath the rising moon. They were so close to the forest. All day he had watched it loom higher, rearing in front of them like a challenge. He would conquer Mirkwood, just as he would conquer his feelings for the hobbit. 

At last, though, he had to call a halt. He swung down from his pony and said, curtly, “We’ll rest here for the night, then leave before dawn. Dwalin, you have first watch. Dori, Ori, see to the ponies.” Their dinner of travel bread seemed to stick in his throat, and he was starting to find its sweetness unpleasantly cloying. The dwarves were quiet, and went quickly to their bedrolls, but Thorin could sense their displeasure. Perhaps he had pushed too hard today. He could not test their endurance like this again.

He laid his bedroll near his sister-sons. Fíli’s quiet snores and Kíli’s slow breathing drowned the other soft noises of the night, and for once, Thorin fell asleep quickly.

 

\---

 

A hand touched his arm lightly, and Thorin jerked awake. “It’s almost dawn,” Oin muttered. Thorin nodded and went to wake the rest of the Company. They would reach Mirkwood by nightfall, most likely. He would set an easy pace today.

As Thorin saddled his pony, he caught the low sound of voices nearby. It would not do to eavesdrop. He took up one of the pony’s hooves and began to clean it, picking out pebbles and clumps of dried mud.

“—figure it out in the end,” he heard Bilbo say quietly.

“Well, it’s easier if you hold these two in one hand and bring the third over the top, see?” That was Fíli’s voice, unusually gentle.

Thorin’s fingers went still on his steed’s muddy hock. What was going on? He let the pony’s foot down and peered over its back. Bilbo and Fíli were standing together next to the hobbit’s pony. Though the light was dim and they were half-hidden by the animal’s bulk, Thorin could see that the two were standing rather close together. Bilbo had his fingers tangled in the pony’s mane. As Thorin watched, Fíli’s hand came up to rest next to the hobbit’s.

“I’ll never get it.” Bilbo sounded frustrated, though Thorin could not see his face; all that was visible was the top of his curly head.

“It’s not that difficult, Bilbo. See, watch,” said Fíli, and his fingers moved in the pony’s mane. “Three bunches of hair, right? This one on the right goes over the middle one. Now the one on the left goes over the middle one. Now the one on the right again.”

“Now, that does make sense,” Bilbo said. “Thorin tried to show me the other day, but the light wasn’t good and I couldn’t quite follow him.”

“Thorin showed you how to braid your hair?” Fíli asked slowly. 

“Well, that’s to say, he let me watch while he braided his hair. I understand braiding is not the sort of thing dwarves normally help each other with, so I’m very grateful for this lesson, Fíli.”

“Don’t worry about it. We’re friends. There’s nothing to be ashamed of here. You’ll learn eventually. When you return to the Shire, your friends won’t even recognize you.”

“Mm, I expect I’ll be something of a social outcast if I show up with braids in my hair and a sword on my belt,” said Bilbo. He said something else, but Thorin’s pony flicked its tail in his face and distracted him. He should not eavesdrop any longer. It was rude. He bent to clean another hoof.

Fíli chuckled and said, “Well, Master Hobbit, you’ll always have a place among the dwarves.”

“That’s very kind of you, but I don’t belong on this quest any more than fish belongs in the branches of a tree.”

“Nonsense. You’re a good fellow, and you saved my uncle’s life. We don’t take that lightly. He can be stern, but he does consider you a friend. He likes you.”

“Hmm.” Bilbo heaved his saddle up onto the pony’s back. 

Fíli helped him situate it, then said, “And I’ll always be your friend. You saved Thorin’s life. He is my uncle and my king. If you should need anything at all, I will do what I can to help you.”

“I would like nothing more than to put that incident behind me,” said Bilbo firmly. “I did nothing extraordinary.”

“Why would you have your deeds forgotten? You acted with great courage. We honor that.”

“It was…” The hobbit sighed. “It was terrifying. I thought I was going to die. I was foolish to rush in, and it was only through the timely arrival of the eagles that any of us survived.”

“You knew it was futile, yet you still went to his aid.” Fíli’s voice was gentle. “In spite of your fear, you faced a terrible foe and you saved my uncle’s life. Great Mahal, Bilbo, I should be thanking you on bended knee.” He paused to tighten the pony’s girth, then slapped its haunch affectionately. “Don’t be so eager to have your valor forgotten. You earned that bead, and the respect and friendship of my kin.”

Thorin realized he had been bent next to his pony’s leg, listening intently, for several minutes. This was ridiculous. There was no reason for him to listen to this conversation – a king does not sneak and eavesdrop. He quickly cleaned the rest of the pony’s hooves and put the bridle over its head. He should forget what he had heard. It was none of his business. But to hear Fíli speak so kindly to the hobbit – and Bilbo’s shy unwillingness to acknowledge his own bravery – 

“Oh, Thorin, I didn’t see you there.” Fíli shuffled awkwardly past, carrying his own saddle. “Er, any chance you have some extra travel bread? I’ve run out.”

“In my pack. Help yourself,” said Thorin. He put the reins over his pony’s head and didn’t look at his sister-son.

 

\---

 

Even before the sun rose, they could see the forest rising before them like a black and silent wall. After a time, the land began to slope up under their ponies’ hooves. The air was still, but for the ponies’ steady pacing and the occasional creak of saddle leather. There was no game to be seen, not even rabbits, and the sound of birdsong slowly died away. At last they reached the very eaves of Mirkwood. The afternoon light barely penetrated the dense forest. The gnarled trunks were twined thickly with ivy, and twisted boughs stretched out to the open air like grasping limbs. The Company took their ease under the overhanging branches.

“Well, here is Mirkwood,” said Gandalf. “The greatest of the forests of the northern world. I hope you like the look of it. Now you must send back these excellent ponies you have borrowed.”

“But we still have need of them,” Gloin protested.

Thorin was inclined to agree. “The beasts will prove useful in the forest. We will send them back to Beorn when we have reached the other side.”

“You are fools,” Gandalf said sharply. “Beorn is not as far off as you seem to think, and you had better keep your promises anyway, for he is a bad enemy. Mr. Baggins’ eyes are sharper than yours, if you have not seen each night after dark a great bear going along with us or sitting far off in the moon, watching our camps. Not only to guard you and guide you, but to keep an eye on the ponies too.”

“What of it? We have not mistreated his animals,” said Dwalin.

The wizard snorted. “Beorn may be your friend, but he loves his animals as his children. You do not guess what kindness he has shown you in letting dwarves ride them so far and so fast, nor what would happen to you, if you tried to take them into the forest.”

“What about the horse, then?” said Thorin. “You don’t mention sending that back.”

“I don’t, because I’m not sending it.”

“What about your promise, then?” Thorin asked, struggling to keep his patience.

“I will look after that. I am not sending the horse back, I am riding it!” 

Dori cried out, “But we still need you!”

“You would abandon us and flee the dangers of Mirkwood?” said Nori.

“Where will you go?” Bombur asked.

“Now we had all this out before,” Gandalf said with a frown. “It’s no use arguing. As I told you, I have some pressing business, and I am already late through bothering with you people. We may meet again before all is over, and then again of course we may not. That depends on your luck and your courage and sense. And I am sending Mr. Baggins with you. I have told you before that he has more about him than you guess, and you will find that out before long.”

Thorin glanced at the hobbit. Bilbo was patting his pony’s neck and wearing a nervous expression, as if he didn’t share Gandalf’s confidence.

The wizard continued, saying, “Cheer up, Bilbo! Don’t look so glum. Cheer up, Thorin and Company! This is your expedition, after all. Think of the treasure at the end, and forget the forest and the dragon, at any rate until tomorrow morning.”

That seemed to settle the matter. It was too late in the day to venture into the forest, so they made camp at its edge. The dwarves built a fire and set to work baking more travel bread, using the supplies Beorn had provided. 

Thorin and Dwalin tended the ponies together. Muddy coats were thoroughly cleaned and tangled tails were carefully brushed. Thorin patiently picked fifteen sets of hooves while Dwalin kept the animals steady.

Dinner was fresh-baked travel bread – slightly more palatable than the stale stuff they had had for lunch, but Thorin was growing tired of the taste all the same. When it was over, he stretched out on a hummock of grass. The day had been long. It was good to rest. There was a burst of laughter from the dwarves gathered by the fire, and Thorin glanced over. Bofur was clapping Kíli on the back. The younger dwarf was red in the face but grinning. Fíli sat some ways off, checking his swords for probably the fifteenth time. The blond dwarf had always been more serious than his brother – well, slightly.

Thorin got to his feet with a sigh, and went to sit with his eldest nephew. “You should rest, Fíli,” he said as he settled himself.

“I am resting.” Fíli sighted along the edge of one sword and tested its edge. “I’m sitting down and all, see?”

“Well, I am impressed you’ve mastered that skill,” Thorin said dryly. He adjusted Orcrist and leaned back on his elbows, adding, “You’ll make a good king one day, but you must learn to rest when you can.”

“You’re one to talk, Uncle,” said Fíli, with a short huff of laughter. He slid the sword back into its sheath. “You’re a better king than I’ll ever be, and you never rest.”

“I’m resting right now. I’m sitting down and all.”

That made Fíli laugh for true. Then he said, “Bilbo said you showed him how to braid his hair so that he could wear his bead.”

Thorin grunted. It felt as if this topic would follow him to his grave. “What of it?” 

“It just made me think of when me and Kíli were small, and you and Mother would braid our hair for us.” 

Thorin watched his sister-son sharply, but Fíli was studying the hilt of his sword. After a moment, Thorin said, “It’s a pity those lessons didn’t stick. Kíli looks half-wild most of the time.”

“Thorin,” Fíli began. He shrugged self-consciously and slid his sword back into its sheath. “I would never question your judgment. But sometimes I have trouble understanding your reasons for doing things.”

“You want to know why I taught Bilbo how to braid his hair.”

Fíli sighed and said, “Yes. I’m sorry. I understand that he saved your life, but it is strange to see you acting this way.”

Thorin was silent for a while, and Fíli fiddled with his braids nervously. Was his behavior truly aberrant? “Mister Baggins has no understanding of what it means to be a dwarf,” said Thorin eventually. “Hobbits are strange creatures. He refuses to accept praise for his deeds. It’s one thing to act this way among friends, but if he behaves so humbly among strangers, they will dismiss him or take advantage of him.”

“And you want to protect him from that.”

“I owe him my life,” Thorin said evenly. “He has no experience with the world at large, and there may come a time when he must endure it alone. If he wears the bead openly, he will be marked as a dwarf-friend, and that will afford him some measure of safety.”

“That’s a good plan. I like it.” Fíli sounded pleased. “But first he has to learn to braid his hair, eh?”

“So it would seem.” They sat in silence a while longer, until Dwalin came over.

“Who has first watch tonight?” asked the older dwarf.

Thorin said, “I do.” It was just as well, since he wouldn’t have been able to sleep anyway. Throughout the day, his mind had been occupied by their journey, but at night he could not distract himself. He could drive himself mad with thoughts of the hobbit: the imagined sensation of hair between his fingers, the memory of hesitant smiles and cheeky comments. Thorin was all but consumed by it – he could admit that, now. It troubled him. He should not desire Bilbo. There were many reasons he should not desire the hobbit. Yet it seemed that his every effort to quell his desire only caused it to flare up again.

As he sat on the edge of Mirkwood, listening to the snores of his companions and the quiet wind across the grasslands, Thorin wondered whether anyone suspected his feelings. Balin almost certainly knew. Perhaps the others, like Fíli and Kíli, assumed that their leader had only friendship in his heart. And though he did feel friendship for Bilbo, he also felt a longing for touch and closeness. No one could know about that, least of all the hobbit. Thorin must not allow his feelings to show.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like Fíli and Kíli just have blind faith in their uncle. It's kind of endearing. More endearing is the fact that they are incredibly slow on the uptake.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mirkwood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I'm so sorry that this it's taken me so long to update. I hope this little chapter is worth the wait.

Morning brought no change in Gandalf’s decision to part ways with the Company. He would set out for Beorn’s house soon, and take the ponies with him. With a heavy heart, Thorin patted his mount’s neck and turned it loose.

The dwarves distributed the supplies as fairly as possible. Thorin hefted his pack, wondering how long the food and water would last. Beorn’s warnings echoed in his head – they should not count on finding game in the forest, and it would be dangerous to drink of any stream they happened upon.

A short distance away, Bilbo muttered, “I do not at all like the idea of trudging for miles with all this on my back.” 

“Don’t you worry,” said Thorin. “It will get lighter all too soon. Before long, I expect we’ll all wish our packs heavier, when the food begins to run short.”

The wizard and the ponies were soon ready to depart. “Good-bye to you all!” said Gandalf to the Company, and he fixed his gaze on Thorin last of all. “Straight through the forest is your way now. Don’t stray off the track – if you do, it’s a thousand to one you will never find it again and never get out of Mirkwood. And then I don’t suppose I, or anyone else, will ever see you again.”

“Do we really have to go through?” the hobbit asked quietly. He was very pale.

“Yes, you do,” said the wizard, “if you want to get to the other side. You must either go through or give up your quest. And I am not going to allow you to back out now, Mr. Baggins. I am ashamed of you for thinking of it. You have got to look after all these dwarves for me.”

“No, no!” said Bilbo. He looked annoyed, and some of the fear had left his face. “I didn’t mean that. I meant, is there no way around?”

For a moment, Thorin was struck by doubt. The path through Mirkwood would be hazardous, particularly for Bilbo. He shook his head angrily and picked up his pack. His feelings for the hobbit were confusing him, and he would be a poor excuse for a king if he allowed his desires to guide his decisions. 

Meanwhile, Gandalf was saying, “There is, if you care to go two hundred miles or so out of your way north, and twice that south. But you wouldn’t get a safe path even then. There are no safe paths in this part of the world. Remember you are over the edge of the wild now, and in for all sorts of fun wherever you go. Before you could get round Mirkwood in the north, you would be right among the slopes o the Grey Mountains. Before you could get round it in the south, you would get into the land of the Necromancer, and even you, Bilbo, won’t need me to tell you tales of that black sorcerer. Stick to the forest track, keep your spirits up, hope for the best, and with a tremendous slice of luck you may come out one day and see the Long Marshes lying below you, and beyond them, high in the east, the Lonely Mountain.”

There was silence for a moment, as each member of the Company contemplated the journey still ahead of them. It would be a difficult time. Finally Thorin said, “Very comforting you are, to be sure, Gandalf. Good-bye. If you won’t come with us, you had better get going without anymore talk.”

“Good-bye, then!” said Gandalf, and he turned his horse and rode off westward again. They watched him go, and the ponies went with him, trotting eagerly for home. Before the wizard passed out of hearing, however, he turned and called out to the dwarves. “Good-bye! Be good, take care of yourselves, and don’t leave the path!”

“Oh, good-bye and go away!” muttered Dwalin.

It was discouraging to lose Gandalf’s company. Thorin would have gone more easily into Mirkwood with the wizard at his side for protection. Gandalf might be manipulative and pushy, but he had great power, and was not easily intimidated. Thorin laid his hand on Orcrist’s pommel as he turned to face the towering darkness of the forest. Now began the most dangerous part of the journey.

 

\---

 

The dwarves passed single-file through the entrance to the path. It was a dim and unwholesome place; the light from outside barely penetrated the gloom. Great trees grew close together, their trunks strangled with vines and smothered with lichen. Their age was beyond reckoning, but they were as wide and tall as any trees Thorin had ever seen. The path wound narrow and sinuous among those trees. It was little more than a dusty track, and the dwarves followed it carefully, Gandalf’s warnings still loud in their ears. 

When Thorin looked back, the entrance to the forest was little more than a bright hole between dark pillars, and the quiet around him was deeper than anything he had ever heard. Darkness and silence were known to him, but that was the familiarity of stone and earth. This was an attentive silence, as if the trees were listening, and the soft footfalls of Thorin’s companions were loud in his ears. 

It was not only the quiet that made him uneasy. As his eyes grew accustomed to the dimness of the forest, he could see some distance on either side of the path. Greenish light filtered down through the thick treetops, as high overhead as the halls of Erebor, though far less comforting. Thorin caught a quick glimpse of a black squirrel as it darted out of sight. The subtle noise of small animals soon reached his ears, or at least he hoped they were animals – grunting, scuffling, the rush of bodies through the undergrowth and among the rotting leaves on the forest floor. Despite Gandalf’s advice, Thorin wondered if any of these animals could be shot and eaten. Squirrel would make for a lean supper, but he would welcome any supplement to their diet of travel bread.

As they walked deeper into the forest, they began to see dense cobwebs stretched between trees or tangled in low branches. Many had been spun close to the path. The threads were thick and dark, and Thorin could hardly imagine what sort of spider could weave such a large web. 

After a time, the Company stopped for a rest. It was difficult to guess the time, but Thorin estimated that they had been walking for some hours. The dwarves huddled along the narrow path, loath to move from its perceived safety. The quiet seemed to press on them; their ears throbbed with it. Thorin studied each of his companions while they rested. Fili was speaking softly with Kili, yet his hands roamed independently from weapon to weapon, as if checking that he still had them. Balin’s cheerful face was grim and alert; Gloin was scowling, and he kept his axe close.

If the dwarves wore their unease openly, Bilbo was still more uncomfortable. He looked pale, though that may have been a trick of the light, and his movements were twitchy and anxious. Thorin could well imagine the little hobbit’s misery. He was a creature of open country; his precious Shire, with its wide sky and fertile pastures, was as different from Mirkwood as it was from Erebor. Dwarves were used to tunneling, and could live happily for some time without the light of the sun, but the closeness and the stillness of Mirkwood were all but unbearable.

They passed several days in this fashion. Nights were pitch-dark; if the sun could not penetrate the trees, it was too much for them to hope that the moon might manage it. They walked on through each dim day, and if the scenery changed, Thorin couldn’t tell. Before long he was sick for a sight of the sun and sky. No wind moved between the trees. All was still, perfectly still and perfectly silent, until Thorin felt that he would go mad from it. 

When they stopped for the night, after their second day in Mirkwood, Thorin overheard Bilbo muttering with Balin. “I feel as if I’m being slowly suffocated,” said the hobbit. The utter silence of the forest deadened his voice – deadened all their voices – and for a moment Thorin had a strange sense of the vastness of the place. Among the massive darkness, he was as small as an insect. The perils of Mirkwood were manifold, and he began to suspect that this silence and stillness were as formidable as any other enemy they might encounter.

As he lay in his bedroll that night, Thorin’s mind wandered back to their time at Beorn’s house. When he’d had his conversation with Bilbo in the gardens, the hobbit had looked as pleased as Thorin had ever seen him. Elbow-deep in dirt and flowers, digging among the plants, with the rich scent of green things in his lungs – was that what made Bilbo truly happy? Peace and contentment were a way of life for hobbits, it seemed. They were happy to settle down in their little homes, tilling soil and tending livestock.

Did Bilbo regret leaving that life? Well, he would return to it one day, when the quest was over. That was probably his dearest hope. Thorin rolled over and tried not to sigh in annoyance. It mattered little. He would become king of Erebor, and the hobbit would return to the Shire. That was the way things would be.

But part of him refused to accept that. Perhaps, having gained a taste of the outside world – having found friendship and camaraderie in the company of dwarves – perhaps Bilbo would stay a while at Erebor. No, that was hardly likely. I miss my books, and my garden, Bilbo had said, after they escaped the goblins. Thorin could offer him none of the comforts of the Shire. 

“Thorin,” someone whispered.

He sat up cautiously, grasping for Orcrist’s hilt.

“Ah, you are awake.” A slight figure padded silently over to where Thorin lay. “I can’t sleep, and you often seem to have the same trouble,” said Bilbo quietly. He arranged his blankets a short distance from Thorin’s and sat down. “This constant silence is awful. I feel like I’m going mad.”

“It is…oppressive,” Thorin agreed. He leaned back against a tree. The sleeping dwarves were huddled along the narrow path, like a row of snoring boulders. At the far end, Nori crouched, keeping watch.

“Have you ever been through Mirkwood before?”

“I have never traveled its breadth,” said Thorin softly. “In my youth, we had dealings with Elves, but I rarely went far from the Mountain.”

Bilbo pulled a blanket up around his shoulders. The air was cold and still, and their quiet conversation was muffled by the heavy silence of the forest. Thorin could hardly see the hobbit, as close as Bilbo was sitting. The darkness of Mirkwood was almost absolute. “What was it like?” Bilbo whispered. “The Lonely Mountain?”

“I was very young when Erebor fell. My sister was little more than a child.” He was silent for a moment, remembering their panicked flight from the dragon’s wrath. “In its glory, the kingdom glittered. The finest craftsmen made it their home. My people were held in highest esteem, for our skill and our wealth. Even the Elves respected us.”

“But you’re still respected,” Bilbo interrupted. “Even in the Shire, everyone knows that the finest jewelry and weapons are of dwarf make. And I can personally attest to dwarves’ skill in battle.”

Thorin could hear the smile in the hobbit’s voice, but he shook his head. “I am the rightful king of Erebor. I’ve spent the last hundred years scrounging among Men for blacksmith work, making nails and horseshoes. My people were proud, but the dragon brought us low, and we were deserted by those we had counted as friends.” For a moment, he was silent, struggling with a fresh surge of anger.

“Tell me more about Erebor,” urged the hobbit. Was it Thorin’s imagination, or had Bilbo edged a little nearer? He shook his head. Over the past few days, he had carefully kept his distance, but now he longed to pull Bilbo closer. _Lean on me,_ he wanted to say. _Rest your head on my shoulder._

“It was a great city. A citadel under the mountain,” he murmured. “From my grandfather’s throne, a narrow bridge stretched away, far over the city. A misstep would have sent me to my death.” He heard Bilbo draw a breath. “Below the city were the mines. All manner of precious metals and gems were brought up from the depths. I remember watching my father at work…molten gold like liquid fire, a tray of rubies that seemed to glow with their own light…” Thorin trailed off and tilted his head back against the tree. 

“It sounds extraordinary,” Bilbo whispered.

“It was.” They were silent then. Thorin was not sure what to say. He was not fond of emotional reflection, but he wanted Bilbo to understand how important and special Erebor had been. He cleared his throat. “Dwarves learn from a young age to work metal and stone. We are dedicated to our crafts. My people made the most beautiful things, doing fine work for its own sake. The Mountain’s rich deposits of ore and gems drew us in, but it was more than a mine. It grew to a city and a citadel. We were the strength of the North. I wish you could have seen it. Mighty statues of armored dwarves stood on either side of the front gate, and inside was a great hall, where the business of the city took place.” He stopped, struggling to find the words. “Erebor… was a place of great beauty. No detail was overlooked. We took pride in our work, and were respected for our skill.” Thorin shrugged. 

Bilbo sighed and huddled down, drawing his blankets closer in a quiet rustle of cloth. “I would have liked to have seen it in its glory.” 

“I will restore it. My city will be great again,” murmured Thorin. The hobbit was now sitting quite close to him. His left shoulder and knee were practically touching Thorin’s right, though Bilbo did not seem to notice or mind. Thorin sternly reminded himself that such casual affection was normal for hobbits.

“Mm, I look forward to seeing it.” Bilbo sounded almost wistful, but it was hard to tell when he spoke so quietly. He sighed again, and it turned into a stifled yawn. “It sounds so grand. The Shire must have seemed terribly dull in comparison.”

Thorin felt his heart quicken its rhythm when Bilbo leaned slightly against him. He said, as gently as he could, “It was good country. Peaceful. And hobbits are a fine and admirable race, if I am any judge.”

Bilbo chuckled. “You wouldn’t say that if you met my cousins. When this is all over, I might ask you to come back and scare them off for me.” He yawned again. “I don’t much care for Mirkwood this time of year. At home, they’re probably bringing in the second crop of hay. It makes the air smell sweet – sweet and grassy. I expect the blackberries are ripe by now as well. My mother used to put up jars and jars of jam every summer.” Thorin felt him shrug slightly. “It’s strange to remember those things. Dust on the road, the creak of Sandyman’s mill wheel as it turned. Just little fragments of a very dull life. I didn’t appreciate them when I had them.” He drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. It was so quiet, Thorin could hear the minute shift of cloth over skin when Bilbo turned his head toward him. “This place seems to swallow up every good thing, doesn’t it? It feels as if Mirkwood extends forever in every direction.”

Thorin did not feel the same way, but he grunted in assent. Every sense, every nerve in his body, was attuned to Bilbo’s presence, and the deadening darkness of the forest seemed only to intensify that awareness. It was all he could do to focus on the conversation. Thorin crossed his arms over his chest and tried to ignore the way his interest had narrowed down to this one hobbit, as if Mirkwood and everything in it had lost all significance. He smothered a yawn and pulled his coat tighter around himself. It wasn’t very cold, but the deep night coupled with his weariness to chill him. Bilbo was leaning against him, warm and solid, and his breathing was slow and even. He was asleep, or would be soon.

Or not. The hobbit stirred and mumbled, “I hope you’ll forgive the imposition. I’m awfully cold, you see.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I keep falling asleep against you. It’s not intentional, but you are terribly warm and a good deal softer than the ground.”

Thorin stifled a groan. It was practically an invitation. He could put his arm around Bilbo’s shoulders, pull him close, and fall asleep with the hobbit’s comforting warmth pressed to his side. But as tempting as that may be, he could not allow himself this weakness. Rank, duty, and honor could not be tossed aside on a whim. If they fell asleep this way, fitted together as intimately as lovers – Thorin’s breath caught for a moment in his chest, and he cleared his throat. It would disrupt the Company. Thorin’s role required his single-minded dedication, and if he faltered, his authority would be ruined. He dragged one of his blankets up and draped it over Bilbo’s shoulders. It would be better this way. Bilbo came from a different lifestyle, and he could not understand the rigid social requirements of dwarven culture. Things in the Shire must be very different indeed, if one friend could sleep so close to another without causing uncomfortable gossip. Thorin tugged the blanket so that it covered Bilbo’s arms and chest. “Is that better?” he whispered.

Bilbo shifted slightly closer. His fingers closed around the edge of the blanket. “Th’nk y’,” he murmured, slurring his words as he drifted into sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who cares, this chapter covers the very end of Chapter 7 and the beginning of Chapter 8 of The Hobbit. I borrowed several phrases from the text, mostly because I like the imagery and also because I sometimes couldn’t think of a nice way of paraphrasing. The dialogue outside Mirkwood is taken straight from the text. 
> 
> I would like to note -- I was in a hurry to get this chapter posted, so if you notice mistakes, repetitions, clumsy wording, etc. then I would be really grateful if you let me know. Revision isn't my strong suit.
> 
> I have spent an extravagant amount of time thinking about the climates, topography, and ecology of Mirkwood and of the Shire. I don't even know why, except that I get an inordinate pleasure out of considering everyday life in Middle-Earth. We’ll just pretend that blackberries and hay ripen at about the same time, because I've forgotten if there's any overlap. I think it’s safe to assume that the Shire’s agricultural “style” is essentially British, but my experience is mostly limited to the northeastern US. If I’m wrong about the blackberries, let me know – it’s been a long winter and my memory is vague.
> 
> I sometimes think that Mirkwood would benefit from the liberal application of chainsaws and elbow grease. It probably qualifies as a cultural landmark, though, since it’s the home of the elves. And it would seem to be ecologically significant, what with the giant spiders and other “unique” species. Mirkwood is just an intriguing concept – a “decadent,” old-growth forest, most likely modeled after historic European forests (we’ll ignore the fact that old-growth has been extremely rare in Europe for a very long time). In North America, old-growth stands are almost exclusive to the northwest coast, where the ecosystem is vastly different from the kind Tolkien described. So it’s difficult for me to reconcile my own understanding of “old-growth” with the forest described by Tolkien –- I see it as a biotic hotspot, a complex ecosystem, and a potential timber resource, but Tolkien makes Mirkwood very dreary and menacing. It serves to increase the tension and fear, but I also feel like it provides an interesting insight into historical attitudes towards forests. I don't know the extent to which that may have influenced Tolkien's portrayal, but I think it's worth considering.
> 
> Boring lecture over. Sorry.


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I borrowed this phrase from the text: “…days followed days, and still the forest seemed just the same….” because I really like it. I also lifted “This was their state when they found their path blocked by running water,” because I couldn’t think of a better transition. I also copied the dialogue from the stream scene and some later bits. And if some of Tolkien's other phrases managed to sneak in without acknowledgement, then I do apologize.

Thorin woke slowly. Someone was shaking his arm. “Wake up, laddie,” Balin was whispering.

He had fallen asleep sitting up, arms crossed over his chest, head tilted back against the rough tree trunk. Bilbo was still fast asleep, and he was still wrapped in Thorin’s blanket, and his head was still resting on Thorin’s shoulder. Thorin would not have chosen to be seen in this position. He shrugged roughly to wake the hobbit up, and said to Balin, “What’s the matter?”

“It is almost dawn. I thought you would want to get an early start today.” Balin glanced at Bilbo. “How’d you sleep, laddie?”

“Er, very well, thank you,” said Bilbo uncertainly.

Dawn in Mirkwood was dark. It was difficult to gauge the time without the sun, and under the trees, full noon was often as dim as twilight. Thorin got to his feet and went with Balin to wake the rest of the Company. He did not look back to where Bilbo still sat. To spend the entire night huddled with the hobbit was one thing; he was disappointed with himself for becoming comfortable with such an intimate arrangement. But to be discovered in that situation -- that made him anxious. He tried to dismiss it. The rest of the dwarves slept close together, for warmth and safety. There was no shame in including Bilbo. 

After a quick and unsatisfying meal of travel bread, they set out along the path once more. Thorin led the way. He needed to be alert – they could not afford complacency in Mirkwood – but his thoughts continually drifted back to Bilbo. Had Balin read into the situation? Had Thorin done something to reveal his feelings? No, of course not. If Kíli or Ori had been cold and homesick, Thorin would have treated them the same as he had Bilbo. There was no reason to think that Balin would judge him for his behavior. It was Thorin’s duty to care for his Company. He was their leader. He had no reason to be ashamed.

Still, he tried to avoid Bilbo after that. Two days went by in which he didn’t exchange more than a handful of words with the hobbit. It was very frustrating, but he knew it was for the best. That knowledge did nothing to ward off several awkward dreams. It was obviously Bilbo’s fault. He seemed to actively seek Thorin’s company, and Thorin was continually distracted by the hobbit’s…physical charms. Luckily his layers of heavy clothing were well suited to concealing his discomfort. It was an irritation, nothing more. He would control this.

That vow was tested several nights later. As Thorin kept watch, he heard someone mumble, and there came a rustle of movement among the sleeping forms of the dwarves. The dwarf prince kept still. The restless sleeper’s dream would pass, and Thorin would be left alone in the darkness and the silence once more.

Almost before he knew what was happening, though, Bilbo had crept over and was settling down next to him. “Bad dreams,” he whispered, by way of explanation.

Thorin grunted. He dreaded Bilbo’s companionship even as he craved it. Mirkwood starved the senses, and there were few distractions. The hobbit seemed always to smell of good, green things – moss, bark, and other scents that Thorin couldn’t identify. He felt he could lose himself in that alone, even without two large brown eyes and that rare, rueful grin. This was nonsense. Thorin pulled his coat tight around himself and hunched his shoulders. Foolish thinking was the domain of the young. It was not the business of kings.

Inevitably, Bilbo nodded off during their quiet conversation. How did he manage to sleep at home, with no one to talk to in the dark hours? Eventually the hobbit’s head came to rest on Thorin’s shoulder. This was turning into something dangerously close to a routine, but Thorin couldn’t bring himself to confront it. It gave Bilbo comfort. Thorin could not deny him that. It was perfectly innocent.

After a short while, Bilbo mumbled again. What dangers haunted his dreams, compelling him to speak out? Thorin ignored it and squinted around at the utter darkness of the forest. He had occasionally seen glowing eyes, but none came near.

“Th’rin,” muttered Bilbo. Small fingers tightened on the sleeve of Thorin’s coat, and Bilbo shifted closer.

“What’s the matter?”

But Bilbo didn’t answer. He clung stubbornly, fingers tightening on Thorin’s sleeve, and a frown deepened on his face. Thorin sighed and tilted his head back. He could ignore this. He would have to ignore this. But there was nothing to distract him from the insistent tug of the hobbit’s small hand on his sleeve. Bilbo’s nightmares must be truly distressing, if he sought comfort like this. When Fíli and Kíli were small, they had occasionally woken in the night with bad dreams. Thorin would give them a mug of warm milk spiked with mead to aid their slumber. That was not possible here. “Er. Hush now,” he whispered. “Go back to sleep.” Bilbo mumbled again, something incomprehensible. Thorin patted his head awkwardly. “Rest quietly. You’re safe.” He hummed softly. He even allowed himself to wrap one arm securely around Bilbo’s shoulders. It was purely for the hobbit’s reassurance.

Bilbo settled eventually, and his sleep became peaceful. He was warm and solid against Thorin’s side, which was strangely comforting. There was nothing unseemly about soothing a distressed comrade. This was entirely innocent.

Except that it wasn’t. The hobbit’s warmth and closeness were having an unwelcome effect on Thorin. He drew a deep, calming breath, and tried to think of other things, but there was an insistent pressure in his trousers. He cursed silently. It had been a long time since he’d felt this kind of—compulsion, irresistible attraction. This was absolutely unacceptable. Inappropriate. If Bilbo knew, he would be utterly disgusted. Thorin would not let his foolish attraction ruin their friendship. In time, his feelings would dwindle and be forgotten, but they would remain friends.

That line of thinking was not effective. He was still uncomfortably hard. _Think of Gandalf._ Thorin scowled. It was Gandalf’s fault Bilbo was here. It was Gandalf’s fault Thorin was in such an awkward position, with an armful of sleeping hobbit and an erection that strained against his trousers. _Not good. Think of Dwalin._ His friend’s fierce countenance sprang into his mind. In younger days, Dwalin had favored a hairstyle that made his head look like a broom. Somehow it had only made him more intimidating. Thorin yawned. They were both growing old now. Dwalin was mostly bald, the wild hair replaced by fearsome tattoos. Thorin himself could feel his years stretching out behind him, marked by stiff muscles and the ache of old wounds. Did Dwalin have the same pains? Thorin glanced down at Bilbo, tucked securely against his side. How long did hobbits live? Bilbo couldn’t have been much past middle age. Did he think often of his youth, and the friends who waited for him in the Shire?

What else had Bilbo left behind? Was some lady hobbit waiting by her kitchen window for his return? Dwarves were reluctant to marry, but sometimes took intimate partners. Kíli had galloped through his youth like a wild pony, and left a trail of broken hearts in his wake; Fíli was only marginally less rampant. What were Bilbo’s habits?

This would not do at all. He must think of safer topics, or risk arousal once more. But his tired mind would not deviate from its course, and Thorin found himself wondering about Bilbo’s preferences and experiences. Hobbits were so different from dwarves – small, quick, with clever eyes and quiet ways. Not to mention soft skin…gentle fingers…remarkable endurance…

_Think of something else!_ Thorin yawned again, and the movement disturbed Bilbo’s sleep. The hobbit shifted and muttered; the bead strung about his neck clinked against his buttons. He tugged at his blankets. “What time is it?”

“Could be the middle of the night or the crack of dawn, for all I know,” said Thorin under his breath. “It feels as if the darkness will never end.”

“I’ll take the next watch if you want to sleep,” Bilbo whispered. He didn’t move away from Thorin’s side, or shrug off the arm that was still draped about his shoulders. “You must be exhausted.”

“I’m fine.”

Bilbo snorted. “Right. You definitely haven’t been yawning for the past ten minutes. I must be mistaken.”

“I thought you were asleep, Master Baggins.”

“Oh, now we’re getting formal, eh?” Bilbo sat up straighter, but kept close to Thorin. That should not be the sort of thing that set the dwarf’s heart to hammering. Thorin took a deep breath and let it out slowly. _Think of something else, for Mahal’s sake._

“It’s Bifur’s turn to keep watch,” he said quietly. He withdrew his arm from Bilbo’s shoulders. “Go back to sleep, Bilbo.”

The hobbit made a small noise of protest and didn’t move away. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m wide awake now. Bifur can take over after me. You go to sleep.”

“Are all hobbits this stubborn?” asked Thorin. His patience was dwindling. 

“Yes.”

It was Thorin’s turn to snort in disbelief. “Everyone in the Company takes his turn at keeping watch. You kept watch last night. Your next turn isn’t for several more days.”

“Well, I seem to recall that you kept watch two nights ago, which means you shouldn’t be keeping watch tonight,” the hobbit retorted in a low voice. “This is completely ridiculous. I don’t know why we’re even arguing about it. You go to sleep now, and I’ll wake Bifur up in a while.”

Thorin glared down at Bilbo in the darkness. He could picture the hobbit’s expression – annoyed and amused – and he was filled with a sudden desire to pull Bilbo close, to hold him in his arms and make him forget all about keeping watch. He groaned in frustration. 

“Are you…I mean, is that a problem?” Bilbo sounded hesitant. “It’s just that I’m not tired at all, and I thought I might as well stay up and let everyone else rest. But if it’s important to you that we go according to some sort of schedule, well, it’s your Company, so I’ll just—”

Thorin cut him off, murmuring, “Stay up if you can’t sleep. But wake Bifur as soon as you start to feel tired.” He ruffled Bilbo’s hair and got to his feet, wincing at the pull of stiff muscles. 

“All right,” said Bilbo slowly. “Sleep well, Thorin.”

\---

In the time that followed, it was surprisingly easy for Thorin to ignore his feelings for Bilbo. The Company’s food supplies were quickly dwindling, and there was no way of knowing how near to the end of Mirkwood they were. Days followed days, and the forest seemed just the same.

One afternoon, Thorin noted a squirrel clinging to a tree not far from the path. He beckoned to Kíli. “Can you bring it down?” he asked in a low voice.

His sister-son narrowed his eyes at the animal. In one fluid motion, he plucked an arrow from his quiver and nocked it. Everyone kept perfectly still. The squirrel twitched its tail. Kíli loosed the arrow, and the squirrel darted out of the way at the last moment. He tried again, and again; five arrows later, the squirrel had vanished, and his quiver was half-empty. The Company was forced to continue on their way, with the promise of travel bread for every meager meal to follow.

They were thirsty, too. Their water skins were dwindling faster than Thorin had expected. In all the time they had spent on the trail through Mirkwood, they hadn’t encountered a single stream or pool. Despite careful rationing, their water was almost used up. Thorin could tell that the Company’s morale was very low. Even Bofur seemed discouraged.

This was their state when they found their path blocked by a stream. It was afternoon, by Thorin’s reckoning. The water flowed fast, but it wasn’t very far to the other side. “Didn’t Beorn mention this stream?” said Bilbo.

“It was well that he warned us about it,” said Thorin slowly. “No one is to drink from this water. And we must not touch it, either, if I remember correctly.”

“Then how are we supposed to get across?” Oin wondered.

Nori kicked at a rotten wooden post that stood at the edge of the water. “Looks like there used to be a bridge.”

“There’s a boat on the far bank!” Bilbo said. He was leaning over the water, peering across. “Why couldn’t it have been on this side?”

Thorin went to stand next to him. Between the dim light and the distance, he couldn’t quite see the other side. “How far away d you think it is?” he asked.

“Not at all far. I shouldn’t think above twelve yards.”

“Twelve yards! I should have thought it was thirty at least, but my eyes don’t see as well as the used a hundred years ago.” Thorin shook his head. “Still, twelve yards is as good as a mile. We can’t jump it, and we daren’t try to wade or swim.”

Bilbo turned to him with a frown, and said, “Can any of you throw a rope?”

“What’s the good of that? The boat is sure to be tied up, even we could reach it, which I doubt.”

It was Bilbo’s turn to shake his head. “I don’t believe it is tied,” he said, pointing across the stream. “I can’t be sure in this light, but it looks to me as if it was just drawn up on the bank.”

Thorin considered the hobbit’s words. They had some rope, and a hook could be fashioned from the iron fasteners on their packs. He glanced at Balin, who nodded firmly. “Fíli. I believe you have the best sight of any of us,” said Thorin finally. “Come here and see if you can spot the boat Master Baggins is talking about.”

Fíli crouched next to Bilbo and squinted across the water. “I think I can see it.” He stared a little longer, ducking his head to one side and the other.

“Dori, the rope,” Thorin said. When it had been brought out, and a hook fashioned, Fíli stood and clapped Bilbo on the shoulder.

“Here we go,” said the young dwarf. He hefted the hook for a moment, then threw it underhand into the gloom.

Bilbo was peering across the water. “Not far enough!” he said. “A couple of feet and you would’ve dropped it onto the boat. Try again. I don’t suppose the magic is strong enough to hurt you, if you just touch a bit of wet rope.”

Fíli hauled the rope back. He hesitated a moment before picking up the hook, and grimaced when he touched the wet metal. This time he threw it harder towards the boat. There was no splash.

“Steady!” Bilbo said. “You’ve thrown it right past the boat. Draw it back gently.” Fíli dragged the rope slowly, and after a moment Bilbo said, “Careful. It’s lying on the boat. Give it another pull and the hook might catch.”

The rope went taut, and when Fíli tugged on it again, it didn’t move. Kíli went to help him, as did Oin and Gloin. Together the dwarves hauled on the rope. At last it went slack, and they stumbled backwards; Kili tripped over Gloin and both dwarves stumbled. A small black boat shot towards them. Bilbo reached out to grab it, but the current caused it to drift beyond his grasp. “Help!” he called out. Balin seized the gunwale and brought the boat in closer.

“It was tied after all,” Balin said. A half-rotted rope dangled from the gunwale. “That was a good pull, lads.”

“And a good job that our rope was stronger,” said Thorin. “I’ll cross first. Fíli , Balin, and Bilbo will come with me. That’s as many as the boat will hold at a time. Kíli , Oin, Gloin, and Dori will go after us, and then Ori, Nori Bifur, and Bofur. Dwalin, Bombur, you’ll go last.”

“Hang on, there aren’t any oars. How are you going to get the boat back to the far bank?” asked Bilbo.

There was a short pause while everyone tried to think of a solution. After a while, Fíli said, “Give me some more rope and another hook.” Bombur had rope in his pack, and the dwarves cobbled together another hook. Fíli cast the hook high and hard over the stream, and it caught in the branches of a tree on the other side. He gave it a few hard tugs and looked back at his uncle. “This should hold. One of you can haul on the rope that’s stuck in the tree. Someone else must keep hold of the hook we used first. When we’re safe on the other side, you can draw the boat back.”

“Excellent work,” said Thorin. He turned to the rest of the Company, but didn’t miss the pleased smile that lit up his sister-son’s face. “Balin, Bilbo. With us.” Fíli climbed eagerly into the small craft, almost tripping when he caught his boot on the side, but Bilbo hung back.

“It’s all right, laddie. It seems a sturdy enough craft. You won’t fall in.” 

“No, it’s just. I mean,” stammered Bilbo. “Hobbits don’t take to water.” He took a deep breath and kept his eyes fixed on the boat as he edged forward.

Dwalin gave him a bracing clap on the shoulder, sending the hobbit stumbling forward. “Go on, lad. It won’t bite you. I’m sure our fearless leader will keep you safe.” Thorin frowned at his friend, but Dwalin only smiled.

Their brief journey across the water was not easy. The dwarves had no difficulty hauling themselves along using the rope, but Thorin’s nerve was tested by the small craft’s tendency to list sharply to one side. If any of them were to touch the water – much less drink of it – the consequences would be disastrous. But they reached the other side without incident.

“Are you all right, Bilbo?” Fíli asked.

“Er, yes. Quite all right,” said the hobbit faintly. He reluctantly released his grip on the gunwale and peered over the side. “Is it quite safe to get out now?”

Fíli leapt onto the bank and dragged the boat up further onto the sandy bank. “Perfectly safe.” Thorin climbed out more cautiously than his sister-son. When Bilbo’s turn came, he hurried up away from the water as if concerned that it would chase him. 

The next two boat loads made it across safely, and the final group was in the process of disembarking when misfortune struck. A sound of hooves, galloping wildly, came to their ears from the path ahead. Out of the dimness came the form of a charging deer, a stag; it gathered and sprang over their heads in a mighty leap. The dwarves scattered, but Thorin acted quickly. He seized Kíli ’s bow and put an arrow to the string. As the deer landed, he sent a swift and sure shot into the beast. It stumbled. The darkness swallowed it, but they heard its hoofbeats falter and go silent. Thorin handed the bow back to Kíli and nodded in satisfaction. Now there would be venison.

“Bombur’s fallen in! He’s drowning!” someone cried out. Thorin turned quickly, in time to see Bilbo leaning far out over the water, reaching desperately for Bombur’s hand. His heart seemed to constrict suddenly.

“Be careful!” he called sharply. If Bilbo were to fall in…

Dwalin flung a rope out, and it landed square in Bombur’s grasp. They pulled him to shore. He was completely soaked. Bifur and Bofur laid their brother on the bank, pushing straggly hair out of his face. Bombur’s eyes were closed and he didn’t move, but his chest rose and fell with his steady, slow breathing. Thorin felt a chill pass over him when he realized Bombur was asleep.

Someone cursed in Khuzdul. Bofur slowly removed his hat. Thorin shook his head, but before he could speak, there came a distant blast as from a huntsman’s horn, and the sound of baying hounds. As the dwarves listened, it seemed that a great hunt was passing by to the north of the path, though they could see no sign of it. The trees grew thickly here, and the light was dim. The Company stood uneasily for a long while, listening to the hunt pass them by. Bombur slept on, with a faint smile on his face.

On the path ahead appeared some white deer. A doe and two fawns, glimmering in the shadows, bounded into the trees. Kíli bent his bow and loosed arrow after arrow, but none found their mark. At last he turned to Thorin with a guilty look. “I’m all out of arrows,” he said in a low, ashamed voice. 

They spent a grim night near the stream. Bombur could not be woken by any means that they knew. The rest of the Company ate a frugal meal; no one was eager to cross the stream again, even with the dubious promise of venison on the other side. In the following days, hope dwindled to nothing in their hearts. Each dwarf took a turn bearing the heavy body of Bombur as they shuffled along the path. That wearisome burden carried with it the weight of despair. How would they ever wake him?

The food ran very low about four days after they crossed the enchanted stream. There was nothing to be gleaned from the woods around the path; unwholesome fungi and herbs grew sparsely between the trees, but the dwarves didn’t dare try to eat them. They came to a place where most of the trees were beeches, and a greenish light came through the canopy. There was a faint breath of air, and they could hear wind, but it had a sad sound. The dead leaves of uncounted autumns past made a carpet that rustled under their feet. With the change in scenery came new, unseen threats: an eerie laughter, the sound of singing in the distance. Two days later, their path wound downwards into a valley filled with mighty oaks. Bilbo climbed up one of them to have a look around, but he could see no end to the forest.

“The forest goes on forever in all directions,” said Dori. He threw down his pack and sat down in disgust.

“What is the use of sending a hobbit?” muttered someone. Thorin caught Dwalin’s eye, and his friend shrugged.

“It’s not my fault,” Bilbo said peevishly. He was sweaty from the climb, and covered in bits of bark and lichen.

Bad tempers were brewing. Thorin cut them off, saying, “Harsh words will get us nowhere. We’ll make camp here for the night and continue on in the morning.” They ate the very last of the food that night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sincere apologies ("many apple-lowgees for the inconweenience," if there are any Blackadder fans out there) for the lateness of this post. This is becoming uncomfortably like a habit. But life doesn't stop for anyone.
> 
> Don’t judge Thorin too harshly for giving his young nephews a warm drink laced with booze to help them sleep. That seemed like the most "realistic" solution, and definitely preferable to headbutting them until they passed out. 
> 
> Also, poor Bombur...


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The starving dwarves encounter an enemy.

Hunger blossomed in Thorin’s stomach the next morning, before he even woke, but he didn’t speak of it. Every member of the Company was hungry, thirsty, exhausted, and discouraged. The only piece of good news came in the form of Bombur’s awakening. He sat up suddenly and scratched his head. “Where am I?” he asked slowly. “Gracious, I’m terribly hungry.”

When they questioned him, it became apparent that he had forgotten everything that had happened since they started their journey in May. The last thing he remembered was the party at Bilbo’s house. It was difficult to make him believe their tale of the many strange things that had happened since then. 

At any rate, Bombur was more interested in relating his beautiful dreams. “I dreamed I was walking in a forest rather like this one, only lit with torches on the trees and lamps swinging from the branches and fires burning on the ground; and there was a great feast going on forever. A woodland king was there with a crown of leaves, and there was a merry singing, and I could not count or describe the things there were to eat and drink.”

“You needn’t try,” said Oin grumpily. “In fact, if you can’t talk about something else, you’d better be silent. We’re quite annoyed enough with you as it is. If you hadn’t woken up, we should have left you to your idiotic dreams in the forest. You’re no joke to carry, even after weeks of short commons.”

There was nothing else for it but to trudge onward, with empty stomachs and weary limbs. Thorin had to try very hard not to give in to despair; there seemed to be little hope of ever getting to the end before they all died of starvation. They had gotten out of many tight situations during this journey, and it was possible they would get out of this one. Thorin tried to hold onto that small hope. He did not want to think about how he had doomed his kin and his friends to death without renown, deep in the silent watches of Mirkwood.

Towards the end of the day, when the gloom began to deepen, Balin called out, “What was that? I thought I saw a twinkle of light in the forest.” A long way off, deep among the trees, there seemed to be a red twinkle in the dark. Another twinkling light appeared, and another, and the dwarves hurried along to discover the source. Ahead and to the left – they drew level with the light, and it seemed as if torches and fires were burning just a short distance from the path.

“It looks as if my dreams were coming true,” said Bombur.

“We were warned against leaving the path. A feast would be no good, if we never got back alive from it,” said Thorin.

“But without a feast, we shan’t remain alive much longer anyway.”

There was a murmur of agreement, but Balin spoke up sharply. “Have you forgotten the warnings of Gandalf and Beorn? To leave the path would be courting disaster.”

An argument broke out then. Eventually, reluctantly – persuaded by hunger, and by Bombur’s long descriptions of the woodland feast in his dream – they all left the path and went in amongst the trees together. Thorin crept around a massive trunk and peered into a clearing. Some trees had been felled there, and the ground was flat. Elves were sitting in the midst of it, with a fire and torches blazing merrily in the darkness, but the most interesting sight was the feast itself. The air was rich with the smell of roast meats. Thorin’s hunger, carefully ignored for so long, struck him with a vengeance. The scent, the smell of food was overwhelming. As if guided by a single mind, the dwarves scrambled forward into the clearing.

No sooner had they stepped out of the trees than all the lights went out. The Company was lost in total darkness. It was disorienting; they stumbled about and crashed into each other, shouting and calling out. Thorin felt something brush past his outstretched hands and he grabbed onto it. The person he’d grabbed reached out and took hold of Thorin’s coat. “Who’s that?”

“Ori?”

“Thorin?” A hand patted clumsily across Thorin’s beard and nose, and he scowled. “Blimey! Sorry, your majesty.”

Thorin shook his head, saying, “Hold onto me. We’ll lose everyone in the darkness if we keep on dashing about without a thought.”

“Oh, that’s a good plan.”

At last they gathered into a small knot and counted themselves out by name. Thorin gripped Kíli’s arm tightly, and rested his other hand on Dwalin’s shoulder. When Bilbo spoke up to confirm that he was present, Thorin felt some of the tension leave his shoulders. Everyone was safe. 

But they were also lost. Hopelessly so. They would have to wait until morning to try and find the path again. After a short while, Dori noticed the glint lights again, brighter than before. The dwarves crept single-file towards the twinkling lights. The first person to walk into the circle of the lights – Bilbo, as chance had it – vanished when the lights were abruptly extinguished.

The dwarves called his name, first quietly, then loudly. No answer came. They didn’t dare spread out to look for him. All was dark and silent around them. Thorin mastered his rising fear and shuffled cautiously forward, and immediately tripped over a log.

It turned out to be Bilbo, curled up fast asleep. He was difficult to wake. “I was having such a lovely dream,” he mumbled, “all about having a most gorgeous dinner.” 

Thorin shook his head and helped the hobbit to his feet. “You’re safe now,” he said quietly. “Safe and awake, and I count that more precious than any dinner.”

“Don’t tell us about dreams,” said Dori brusquely. “Dream-dinners aren’t any good.”

They settled down to a miserable night, lost in the depths of Mirkwood. It wasn’t long before Kíli, who was keeping watch, roused everyone by saying, “There’s a regular blaze of light begun not far away. It’s as if hundreds of torches and fires have just been lit suddenly. And hark to the singing and the harps!”

The dwarves crept towards the lights once more. Thorin did not have high hopes, but they needed help, and he would not deny his companions their hope. They came upon a great feast, more magnificent than before, and a woodland king with a crown of leaves presided over the elvish folk. “Is that…?” one of the dwarves whispered.

As the Company watched, bowls were passed from hand to hand; the feasters wore flowers in their hair, and green and white gems gleamed on collars and belts. Fair faces were filled with mirth, and voices were raised in loud song and laughter. Thorin had eyes only for the king of these folk. They were equals by rights, he and Thranduil Elvenking, and he rebelled against the thought of asking that elf for help. It would be too humiliating.

He glanced to his left, where Fíli and Kíli crouched, peering through the leaves with the light of the feast on their faces. Just past them, Balin was leaning wearily against a tree. Thorin sighed and stepped out into the elves’ midst.

That step proved to be disastrous. He immediately dropped like a stone, perfectly unconscious of his surroundings.

\---

 

He woke to the sight of leather boots next to his face. A fair voice spoke. Elvish. Thorin looked up at the elves surrounding him, and they exchanged long looks. Old anger, never forgotten, swelled in Thorin and he growled. But when he tried to move, he found that his hands and feet were bound. “What is the meaning of this?” he demanded. But the elves would not answer him. They talked together in low voices. Thorin took the chance of studying his surroundings. Beyond the forest of legs was greater Mirkwood. No path could be seen. His friends were likewise missing.

“Let’s move,” one of the elves said abruptly, hauling Thorin to his feet. He staggered slightly and immediately hated himself for it. He could show no weakness before them, exhausted and hungry though he might be. This vow was immediately put to the test; the elves followed a swift course through the forest, and Thorin could not keep up. The elves grew impatient, and more than one of them muttered a derisive-sounding comment.

“I will walk at my own pace,” said Thorin stiffly.

“That would be acceptable, if we wished to arrive next spring.” One of the elves took hold of his arm, just above the elbow, and pulled him briskly onward. Thorin struggled to match the elf’s pace. After only a short distance, he stumbled and landed on his knees. “Up,” ordered the elf.

Thorin got slowly to his feet, and the elf gripped his arm again and dragged him forward. The rest of the elves followed silently, their faces expressionless. Thorin hurried along in the wake of the lead elf’s relentless pace. His muscles burned, and his limbs felt weak, but he kept his mouth shut. Again he stumbled, and again he was hauled to his feet and dragged along. At last, after several miles, Thorin stumbled and fell a third time, and he could not move.

One of the elves said something short in their language, and the leader picked Thorin up bodily and set him on his feet. “Walk, or we will drag you,” said the elf.

Thorin gritted his teeth and did his best to keep up. Before the day’s march was done, he collapsed several more times. He was truly starving. As twilight began to descend over the forest, he realized that he would not be able to walk any further. He slowed to a halt, resisting the elf’s grip on his arm. “There isn’t time to rest,” said the elf disapprovingly.

“He’s tired. He has such short legs, it’s hardly a surprise,” muttered another of the elves. Thorin kept his eyes low, but the comment annoyed him.

“We’re nearly at the entrance. We could carry him the last few miles.”

The leader responded in Elvish. He sounded angry, but his grasp didn’t tighten on Thorin’s arm. None of the other elves said anything. After a moment, the leader dragged Thorin to his feet and said, “Walk or I will drag you, Master Dwarf. It is only a few miles more.”

Thorin wordlessly put one foot in front of the other.

\---

The sound of rushing water filled his ears. It did little to raise his spirits. He swallowed around the dryness of his throat and kept walking, following the lead elf. A few moments later, they came upon the river itself. It was wide and fast-running. They followed it upstream. The sound of it was refreshing, but Thorin was more interested in a drink. More than interested. Desperate.

Eventually the elf stopped. When Thorin looked up, he had his first glimpse of Thranduil’s gate. There were two huge doors of stone, taller than any of the elves and carved with woodland motifs. So this was the Elvenking’s stronghold. A cave. If he’d had the energy to care, Thorin would have found this very ironic. The river ran before the doors, out of the heights of the forest. When they entered, Thorin was led down a winding passage, deep underground. It would have been a comfortable enough sort of place if it weren’t for the elves and their ridiculous aesthetics. 

He was taken to a wide, high hall. Thranduil sat there, in a throne, on a dais. He was wearing an absurd crown of autumn leaves and twigs. Thorin met his gaze without hesitation or humility. They were equals, by rights.

“Why did you and your folk three times try to attack my people at their merrymaking?” Thranduil asked, without preamble. He did not seem to blink as often as normal folk, and his pale eyes were rather mad.

“We did not attack them,” said Thorin, his voice low but firm. “We came…” He swallowed hard but didn’t look away. “We came to beg, because we were starving.”

A faint smile touched the Elvenking’s face, but the other elves were still and silent. “Where are your friends now, and what are they doing?”

“I don’t know, but I expect they are starving in the forest.” The thought made his stomach twist with anxiety.

“What were you doing in the forest?”

It was like having a staring contest with a statue. Thranduil was unnaturally still, and his eyes remained locked on Thorin’s. There were tales that elves could hear a person’s thoughts. It mattered little. Thorin’s fear for his companions would mask his thoughts of…their greater purpose.

“What were you doing in the forest?” Thranduil asked again, his voice deadly calm.

“Looking for food and drink,” said Thorin, “because we were starving.”

“But what brought you into the forest at all?” Thranduil leaned forward slightly on his throne, mad eyes wide and unblinking. “What are you doing here, Thorin, son of Thrain?”

Thorin shut his mouth and matched Thranduil’s gaze steadfastly. He thought of his brave sister-sons, Balin’s weary face, and Dwalin’s steadfast refusal to admit his own hunger or exhaustion. He thought of Bilbo. What had happened to them? Were the elves keeping his friends prisoner elsewhere in this fortress?

“Very well,” said Thranduil slowly. He sat back and beckoned to his attendants. “Take him away and keep him safe, until he feels inclined to tell the truth, even if he waits a hundred years.” The Elvenking smiled faintly as his gaze returned to Thorin.

Thorin very shortly found himself in one of the deepest caves of Thranduil’s palace. He could not rightly guess how far underground they had gone. The elves shut him in there, behind a heavy wooden door, and left him alone with a plate of bread and meat and a goblet of water. Thorin rubbed his sore wrists – they had taken off his bindings – and forced himself to eat slowly. He hated that he needed to eat. His companions were lost, starving, perhaps dead. The bread was like ash in his mouth, but he forced himself to chew and swallow. He must live. With or without his friends, he was still a king. He must survive, and escape, and reclaim Erebor. His life had no other purpose.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I like the part with Ori.
> 
> I had to cut about a thousand words out of this chapter when I realized that Thorin didn’t take part in the Spider Adventure with the rest of the dwarves. I don’t mind too much – that scene was irritating to write. But it did set me back a bit with my word count.
> 
> In the book, he writes that the elves took Thorin away “and put thongs on him.” This is a fine example of how unseen shifts in language can affect a reader’s interpretation of a story. For real though, it just made me wonder, are elves into Victoria’s Secret or do they go more for high-end La Perla? And just how many thongs did they make him wear? I need a better hobby than this. Until I find one, I expect I’ll randomly think of Thorin in fancy underwear and just start giggling uncontrollably.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thorin spends a miserable time in prison, until a familiar face appears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like if Thorin had a rockin’ theme song, it would probably be Metallica’s “Fade To Black.” Seems like his kind of jam.

Nights followed days. They were indistinguishable, and Thorin had no sense of the passing of time. He spent his time pacing the length (three paces), breadth (four paces), and perimeter (fourteen paces) of his cell. Food was brought twice every day, perhaps for breakfast and supper, though that was only a guess. Dense bread, bland meat, and tepid water, every day. Thorin didn’t particularly mind. It was enough to hold body and soul together. He ate mechanically, chewing each mouthful fifteen times before swallowing. The food tasted like nothing.

He found no peace in slumber. His sleeping hours, like each of his waking moments, were filled with the faces of his friends. They were surely dead by now. Lost in the depths of Mirkwood, without food or water, they would have gradually weakened until they couldn’t carry on any longer. Thorin spent several days huddled in a corner of his cell, picturing each of his companions. Ori and his knitted jumpers. Dwalin’s scalp tattoos. Oin’s ear trumpet. Fíli and Kíli. It was all he could do not to weep at the thought of his sister-sons lying dead in the forest. He dug his fingernails into his palms.

Days followed nights. Had it been a week now, or two, or longer? Using his belt-knife, he laboriously scratched words into the gritty stone wall. _I am Thorin, son of Thrain, son of Thror, of the line of Durin. I am the rightful king of Erebor and my enemy holds me here against my will._ That task held his attention for an entire day, and it would also serve to remind him of his duty to his people. It was his duty to escape. To win back his lost kingdom.

It seemed impossible. He was alone, trapped in Thranduil’s fortress, in a very secure cell. His companions were dead, or they had given him up for dead. Either way, he had no hope of rescue. He had no hope at all. He was too closely guarded. There would be no escape.

Thorin descended into a very dark mood. He spent the long, silent hours of his confinement thinking. Until now, the greater part of his life had been devoted to leading his people and to reclaiming Erebor. But it was clear that his purpose, his _sole purpose_ in this life, would go unfulfilled. He would die here. 

Utterly alone.

He remembered the thunder-giants’ battle, and how he and Fíli had watched as Kíli was carried away from them. The desperation in his youngest kinsman’s face. Fear of death. Thorin knew it well, but this aching despair was less familiar. He saw his years stretch out before him. His voice would wither and his muscles would weaken, and after long years alone in the silence, he would die at last. Alone.

What pained him most was the knowledge that his companions’ bodies lay rotting under the trees, among the leaves. They would have died slowly, in utter misery, and there would not have been anyone to perform the funerary rites. What of the hobbit? Did his friends in the Shire wait futilely for his return? 

He ignored his food that day.

\---

He lay on his pallet for several days, slipping in and out of a thin doze. Hunger gnawed at him, and there was a steady ache in his head. There was no reason at all to wake up.

It was on one such day that Bilbo saved him.

\---

“Are you alive?”

Thorin put his arm over his face and tried to shut out the words. He was imagining Bilbo’s voice now. It had come first as a whisper, an urgent hiss, but Thorin resolutely ignored it. He would not let madness take hold.

“Thorin?”

A pebble landed on Thorin’s chest. The next one bounced off his arm. He opened his eyes, but there was no one to be seen. He was truly mad, then.

“Oh, thank heavens! I knew you were too tough for them to kill,” said Bilbo’s voice. 

“Leave me alone,” Thorin muttered.

Bilbo snorted quietly. “That’s very nice. D’you know how much trouble I’ve had, tracking you down? They’ve got all our friends locked up in different parts of this miserable cave.” He paused, then added, “Could you come closer to the door? I’m trying to keep quiet so no one notices me. It’s a bit difficult when I have to shout across the room at you.”

Thorin lay quite still on his pallet. He was imagining this. His mind was inventing all of it.

“For goodness’ sake, Thorin, I know you’re in there.” The imaginary voice sounded strained. “Would you please come towards the door?”

He slowly rose and walked closer to the door. It was massive, bound in sturdy iron. There was a tiny window just above Thorin’s head, but when Bilbo next spoke, his voice came from the keyhole near Thorin’s elbow. “Thank you. Now, I’m here to tell you that the rest of the Company is alive and well, but they’re all prisoners like you.”

Thorin crouched and peered through the keyhole. He could not see Bilbo. “How can I be sure I’m not imagining this?” he whispered.

Bilbo made an irritated noise. “Well, you’ll just have to take my word for it, I suppose. I’m…er, well, you see, I’ve got this…ring. And it makes me invisible. Look, I can’t talk for very long. The guards will be walking past in a few minutes. I just wanted to make sure you’re all right.” There was a long pause. “Thorin? Are you all right?”

Thorin put one shaking hand against the heavy door. “Is it really you?”

“For the last time, yes!” Bilbo hissed.

“You’re…alive?”

“Of course, though it’s not been easy to keep hidden from these confounded elves.” There was a rustle of cloth, then Bilbo’s low voice came more urgently. “The guards are coming. Thorin…”

“Bilbo, be careful,” Thorin said, his voice little more than a harsh whisper. He could hardly get the words past the rough lump in his throat.

“I’ll be back.” There was a sound of light, hurried footsteps, and Thorin knew he was alone. He leaned against the wall, palm still pressed against the door. Alive. His friends were alive. A shudder ran through his body and drew a deep, dry sob out of him.

\---

Bilbo returned the next night and stayed for some time. “You’ve been here almost three weeks, as near as I can tell,” he said, in response to Thorin’s questions. “Everyone else is well, if a bit battered. They’ve been here about two weeks.” There was a quiet movement, and he added, “If you want to peep through the keyhole, we could talk face-to-face. If you like.”

Thorin crouched next to the keyhole. There was a faint light outside his cell – just enough for him to make out Bilbo’s shadowy outline, and the occasional glint of his eyes, through the small gap. “Won’t the guards see you?” he breathed.

Bilbo shrugged and gave a small smile. “It’s worth the risk. How are you?”

“I am…well,” said Thorin slowly. “Better, now that I know you are alive.”

“It is encouraging, isn’t it? I’ve let the others know that you’re a prisoner as well. I must say, it was a real relief to find you here.” Bilbo looked up, making cautious eye contact. “We were afraid we’d lost you.” We. That did not escape Thorin’s notice.

“You may put your mind at rest, burglar,” he murmured, keeping as close as possible to the keyhole. Bilbo looked exhausted, even in the darkness of the corridor, and his face was thin. “Now it’s your turn to ease my fears. How have you managed to stay hidden? Do the elves not suspect that you’re hiding in their midst?”

Bilbo shook his head, saying, “My magic ring keeps me well protected. It’s blasted tricky keeping quiet all the time, though. I have to steal every bite of food, and I hardly dare to sleep, even tucked up in the darkest corners I can find. I’m like a burglar that can’t get away, but must go on miserably burgling the same house day after day.”

“Wait,” Thorin interrupted. He grabbed the bread from his evening meal and held it up before the keyhole. “Can you reach up to the window?”

Bilbo glanced upwards. “I think so.” He vanished from sight, and a moment later, a small, dirty hand poked through the window. Thorin stood and passed the bread through. “Thank you,” Bilbo said gratefully, when they met again at the keyhole.

_Anything,_ Thorin wanted to say. “Anytime,” he whispered. “I will keep food aside for you every evening.” When Bilbo started to protest, Thorin quietly said, “They feed me very well. I can easily spare it. Please,” he added, “I owe you my life.”

Bilbo shut his mouth. His expression was wearily rueful. “Stubborn,” he muttered.

“Sounds rather like a certain hobbit of my acquaintance.”

That made Bilbo smile, in a quick flash of gleaming teeth before he ducked his head in embarrassment. “Do you want me to take any messages to any of the others? Perhaps your nephews?”

Thorin pressed his palm against the door in frustration. He was angrier at his confinement now than he had been in many days. Bilbo was sitting inches away. Thorin could hear him, see him, but couldn’t reach. It had been so long.

Finally he said, “Tell them I am well. I’m relieved that they’re alive.” 

“Well, I’d best be on my way. It’ll take me most of the night to relay that incredibly emotional, familial sentiment.” Bilbo vanished from sight – he must have put on his magic ring – and Thorin crowded up against the door.

“Wait!” He hated himself for sounding so desperate. A king is a king, even in prison. “Wait, please.”

“What’s wrong?” Bilbo reappeared, huddled close to the keyhole.

Thorin hesitated. It was a strange thing that his battle-tested courage should fail him now, of all times. “When will you return?”

Bilbo smiled. “I can come back tomorrow night. I miss our talks. It’s rather lonely, being invisible all the time.”

“Oh,” Thorin managed to say. _I miss our talks._ There was an unusual feeling in his chest. “Well. I look forward to it.”

Bilbo looked quickly up, and vanished abruptly. “The guards are coming,” he whispered. “I’m sorry. Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow.” When he was sure Bilbo was gone, Thorin leaned back against the cool, stone wall and released a long breath. _I can come back tomorrow. I miss our talks._

\---

But Bilbo did not appear the next night, or the one after. Thorin kept his impatience carefully in check and tried not to allow fear to overwhelm him. It wasn’t likely that Bilbo had been captured, killed, or badly injured. Rather, he was being careful. That was it. Thorin spent both nights dozing next to the door.

When Bilbo finally returned, Thorin was using his knife to engrave his family tree on the wall of the cell. “I didn’t think you would be here,” he whispered, after Bilbo had greeted him. 

“I am sorry, Thorin,” murmured the hobbit. “There was a bit of bother the last few nights. I think the guards are changing their rotations. They nearly caught me outside Balin’s cell two nights ago.”

Thorin laid his hand wearily against the door. “Please take care. If you’re caught…”

“Then none of us will escape,” Bilbo finished softly.

“Your safety is more important to me,” Thorin said in a low voice. When Bilbo stared at him for a moment, the dwarf cleared his throat and added, “Would you like my bread?”

“Er…yes, thank you.” Thorin passed the food through the small window. Their hands did not touch. 

“How is it that the others were caught?”

“Mm. Well, after our third attempt to join the elves at their feasting – I’m assuming that’s when you were captured?” Bilbo asked, his mouth full of bread. “We settled down to sleep for the rest of the night, but we were ensnared by giant spiders. Absolutely massive. Some of them were bigger than cart-horses.”

Thorin could not repress a small, anxious noise. “Was anyone hurt?”

“Well, everyone was a bit sick from the spiders’ poison. Oh, except they hadn’t caught me, because I had my ring on. That was a bit of luck, at least. I had to lead the spiders off on a wild-goose chase before I could run back and cut all the dwarves free. They’d been wrapped up tight in the spiders’ silk, you see.” He paused for another bite of bread.

“How many spiders were there?”

Bilbo thought for a moment. “Several dozen, at least. I must have killed at least ten or twelve of them, but that barely dented their numbers.” He patted the sword at his waist. “And I thought of a name for my sword. Sting.” He sounded more pleased about that than his triumph over the giant spiders.

Thorin shook his head, smiling. “Once again, you’ve shown that hobbits are not to be underestimated. I regret that I ever doubted you. I’d rather have you at my side in battle than an army of dwarf warriors.”

After a moment, Bilbo said, “Oh,” very quietly. His face was ruddy in the faint light. “Thank you. Truth be told, it was terrifying, and I was convinced we were all doomed. But once the dwarves were free, we were able to hold off the spiders and run away. It was a terrible business. We spent a miserable night in the forest. That’s when we discovered that you were missing.” He broke off a small piece of bread and ate it slowly. “It was quite a shock. We were certain that you’d been killed by the spiders. Things looked quite hopeless.” He met Thorin’s eyes and gave an unhappy smile. “It was...awful.”

Thorin rested his forehead against the door. “I am sorry,” he said. He ached to reach out and touch the hobbit. Words were poor comfort. “I wish I’d been there.” 

“Well. It’s no good dwelling on it.” But Bilbo fell silent, as if he couldn’t tear himself away from the memory.

“I cannot tell you what it means to me that you all survived,” said Thorin softly. “Once again, you’ve proven your quality. My sister-sons and my friends are alive thanks to you.”

“Well, I expect you’ll find a way to repay me,” said Bilbo. Thorin could hear the smile in his voice.

“Cheeky burglar,” he muttered. He didn’t allow himself to think about the ways in which he would like to repay the hobbit.

Bilbo chuckled quietly. “Anyway, that’s when the elves caught us. We were too weak to fight. I slipped on my ring at the last moment, and followed the party back to this place. I must say, I’ve had rather my fill of dangerous caves. But I had my first look at the king of the elves.”

“Thranduil,” Thorin said in a low voice.

“Mm, that one. He questioned everyone. Wanted to know what they – we, that is – were doing in his forest. No one would tell him anything. They didn’t even pretend to be polite. I suppose that’s warranted when you’ve been captured.” Bilbo sighed and finished the bread. “And Thranduil said that there would be no escape through his enchanted doors, once we’d been brought inside.” He fell silent, apparently deep in thought. “Thorin,” he said after a moment, but didn’t continue.

“Yes?”

The hobbit hesitated, then said, “I really don’t see how we’ll be able to escape. I’ve no way of getting hold of Gandalf, and you’re locked up as tight as the bark on a tree. And Thranduil’s doors are enchanted to keep you all inside.”

“We’ll think of something. Can you look for other ways out of the caves?”

“Yes, but how will I break you all out of your cells?” Bilbo sounded desperate. Frightened.

“We’ll worry about that when the time comes. For now, keep on your guard.”

“I assure you, I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

Thorin smiled. “I suppose you are, but that does very little to ease my mind.”

Bilbo shook his head and said, “You’re worse than a mother hen. Although I expect having Fíli and Kíli for nephews would make anyone anxious.”

“How are they?”

“Well enough. They’re in separate cells.”

Thorin grunted. That would displease them. They’d hardly spent a day apart since Kíli was born. Boredom was all but unknown when you had your brother for a shadow. “What about Balin?” His oldest friend was tough as tempered steel, but he was growing older.

“He seems to be sustained by righteous anger and his absolute faith in your ability to get us out of this mess.” He shifted and leaned his head against the door. Thorin watched the hobbit’s face through the keyhole. “I’d best move along,” said Bilbo finally. “The guards might come along at any time.”

“If you must.” Thorin stayed close to the keyhole. He would wait until Bilbo vanished.

Bilbo made no move to leave. He sighed. “I wish Gandalf were here. He would get us out of this mess.”

Thorin wasn’t sure what to say. He fiddled with his bootlaces. It was difficult to contribute to the escape preparations when he was locked alone in an isolated cell. “I suppose you wish you were safe at home in the Shire,” he remarked. Even as the words left his mouth, he knew it was the wrong thing to say.

Bilbo’s lips flattened into an angry line. “I suppose I do. But I have a duty to rescue you, you ass. I signed on for the entire journey, and I refuse to give up just because things look utterly hopeless.”

“I am sorry. That was unfair,” Thorin said in a low voice. 

Bilbo sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. The movement made the torchlight catch on something in his hair. “We are both tired. Don’t let it trouble you.”

Thorin didn’t answer. He was pressed close to the door, squinting through the keyhole for a better look. He could hardly believe his eyes. “Did you braid your hair?”

“Oh, that. Er. Yes,” said Bilbo. His fingers found the short braid. Thorin’s bead glinted there, and for a moment he felt his breath catch in his chest.

“It suits you,” he said finally. “I am honored.” More than honored.

Bilbo’s face was dusky again in the dim light. He cleared his throat. “Well, I’ve had plenty of time to practice braiding.” He stopped there, and although it seemed as if he had more to say, he didn’t speak again for a long time.

At last Thorin whispered, “Thank you for wearing it. Though I’m rather afraid that if Thranduil’s guards catch you, you’ll immediately be recognized as a dwarf-friend and a spy.”

“Well, I may be a burglar, but I’m not disloyal,” said Bilbo. He was fingering the bead like a good-luck charm. Thorin wished he could touch it as well. The hobbit cleared his throat and added, “But this is twice I’ve saved your skin, Master Oakenshield, and once for each of your friends. If we survive, I’ll most likely be reimbursed entirely in beads.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For clarity: a pace is two steps, a full stride. Everyone’s pace is different based on their height, leg length, and all that business. Some professions, like forestry, surveying, and wildlife research, require you to know your pace. For example, mine is about 13.5 paces, or 27 steps, per 66 feet, so each of my paces is about 4.8 feet (sometimes shorter, if I’m carrying heavy equipment). Dwarves are about five feet tall. The “average” human leg length is about 45% of our total height. As I understand it, dwarves tend to have disproportionately shorter limbs than humans, so we’ll say that their legs make up about 40% of their total height. (I chose 40% because it seemed reasonable, and this is a fantasy story so we’ll just have to be comfortable with rough estimates.) That would make their legs about 2 feet long. My legs are approximately 2.4 feet long. I am abandoning this pointless math problem now, because it’s late and I haven’t done this kind of irritating ratio work in like five years. Let’s just agree that the average dwarf’s pace would probably be around 4 or 4.25 feet, which would make Thorin’s cell about 12 feet wide and 16 feet long. I think I need a glass of wine. Don’t ask me to do simple math on a Tuesday night.
> 
> You probably noticed that I borrowed the phrase “prove your quality” from The Lord of the Rings. It seemed to fit the moment.
> 
> Sometimes you just have to finish a serious chapter with a Cheeky Bilbo moment.
> 
> **IMPORTANT: How would everyone feel about a chapter from Bilbo's POV?**


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bilbo's perspective.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do you think happened with the dwarves’ weapons? I mean, I assume they were confiscated – but wouldn’t Thranduil have noticed that Thorin was carrying a sword of Gondolin? Or maybe the elves of Mirkwood are too busy feasting and partying to pay attention to stuffy old lore like that. For our purposes, I’m working under the assumption that Thranduil had the dwarves’ weapons (including Orcrist) bundled away to the armory for safekeeping.
> 
> Speaking of weapons, the plural form of “axe” is “axes,” which just makes me think about Dwalin carrying around a stack of graph paper. Even dwarves can get on board with some cool parabolas or an eye-catching reciprocal function.

Bilbo pulled his filthy coat a little tighter and shifted. He had left the Shire some three months previously, a stout and proper hobbit. He was now hiding under a table, in the armory of Thranduil Elvenking, in the depths of Mirkwood. He was hungry, weary, sore, and invisible. And alone.

 _This is the dreariest and dullest part of all this wretched, tiresome, uncomfortable adventure,_ he thought to himself. _I wish I was back in my hobbit-hole, by my own warm fireside with the lamp shining._ Then he remembered what Thorin had said earlier – “I suppose you wish you were safe at home in the Shire” – and scowled. Wild horses wouldn’t drag the truth out of him, but he did wish that.

Thorin. He was as tough and prickly as a treeful of conkers. It was amazing he was actually alive. But then, Bilbo had never really believed that Thorin was dead. No, that was a lie. He hadn’t wanted to believe it. 

\---

They’d come so far. Curled up in the darkness with his exhausted companions, sword still glistening with spider blood, Bilbo was seized by misery at the thought of Thorin’s apparent fall. Had the spiders found him too tough a nut to crack, and simply killed eaten him on the spot? Had he been injured and accidentally abandoned by his friends? The mighty Thorin Oakenshield, stricken and forsaken, left to die in his enemy’s lands. Bilbo’s empty stomach clenched and heaved at the thought. The quest seemed hopeless now. They would all die here in Mirkwood.

“We have no other choice,” someone muttered. A regular clamor broke out. Bilbo only half-listened to the argument.

“—his heirs—”

“—no question, but where—”

“Did he not—”

“—his closest advisor!”

Above it all came a louder, authoritative voice. “Enough! We have more pressing concerns.” The quarrel died out. Bilbo glanced over his shoulder. Fíli was standing, albeit shakily, with one hand on his hip and the other on the hilt of his sword. “I am Thorin’s heir. If anyone would care to dispute that, we may settle it another time. For now, I suggest we all rest, and in the morning we can find our way out of this miserable forest.” His tone brooked no disagreement. Or perhaps the other dwarves were, for the first time, simply too tired and hungry to argue. 

Bilbo huddled up again, with Sting unsheathed and his head pillowed on his arm. At home, it was late summer. The corn and barley would be harvested soon. The apples would be ripe in a few short weeks, and the late plums were probably ready right now. His young friend Hamfast Gamgee would be putting up another batch of his delightful homebrew. At the Green Dragon, friends would gather to trade gossip and sample the ale, while fireflies winked outside in the cool night air.

Bilbo sighed and closed his eyes. Seasons didn’t seem to apply in Mirkwood. He was tired of the smell of rotting leaves and damp, still air. And despite Fíli’s confidence, or more likely bravado, Bilbo didn’t think it was likely that they would find a way out of Mirkwood. They were starving. Actually starving. Bilbo had never known hunger in this way. They would die here, deep within the forest; his body would eventually disappear under a drift of leaves, one of thirteen forgotten travelers. And somewhere, the fourteenth traveler lay alone, abandoned by his Company. Bilbo sniffed and curled up a little tighter. Erebor had lost its king.

 

Someone shouted, and Bilbo jerked awake with taut muscles. Before conscious thought, the ring found its way onto his finger; he blinked, and the Company was surrounded by elves. Captured. Again. Bilbo struggled to his feet and hurried along in the wake of his friends, who were being herded away. Fortunately, the dwarves were as weak as the hobbit, and Bilbo was not left behind. But it was a near thing. He almost lost sight of them alongside the river.

Thranduil’s gate was a powerfully intimidating sight. Thranduil himself, on his elegant throne, was enough to make Bilbo shrink back against the wall. The Elvenking had a pale, unblinking gaze. Bilbo stood for a long time transfixed, and barely heard what passed between the king and his prisoners. The elves of Mirkwood were lithe and fair, like their cousins in Rivendell, but Bilbo thought that there was something mad and merciless in Thranduil’s face. Bilbo found himself wishing for Lord Elrond’s stern presence. 

Sharp words were traded. Bilbo miserably watched Dwalin’s hand twitch for his missing axe. Balin said something so baldly insulting and hostile that Thranduil deigned to lean forward, fingers tightening on the arms of his throne. But nothing came of it, except that the dwarves were sent to far-flung cells throughout the palace. 

\---

Bilbo was brought back to the present when the armory door clunked open. He lay perfectly still. The elves had extraordinary hearing – more than once, he had almost been betrayed by the sound of his own breathing. Several pairs of feet strode past his hiding spot. Light voices spoke harmoniously. Bilbo closed his eyes and thought about Rivendell. He didn’t open them again until the door had shut again.

This business of hiding and sneaking was quite tiring. He had to be on his guard at all times. He never had enough to eat, or enough sleep. The first week of the Company’s imprisonment had been truly awful. After he’d found where each of his friends was being kept, Bilbo had set to work finding a way out of Thranduil’s palace. He had no other choice – well, he could either try to escape, or resign himself to a life of invisibility or imprisonment along with his friends. But escape seemed quite impossible. Thranduil’s front gate was enchanted to prevent prisoners from getting out. When Bilbo had tried to sneak out, on the heels of a hunting party, he had almost been squashed by the fast-closing doors. He had leaned breathlessly against a nearby tree, heart galloping in his chest. It was not an experiment he would care to repeat. But he had to find a way out of the elves’ fortress. He had promised Thorin he would.

\---

In the second week of their imprisonment, he’d found Thorin’s cell. Not by chance. He’d overheard the guards discussing it. After that, it had only been a matter of a few hours and some long, dark passageways, and in the end Bilbo had located his friend.

Bilbo stood for a while on his toes, trying to peer through the little window in the door. Finally he gave up and crouched by the keyhole. The torches in the passageway burned with a clear light, but it was quite dim inside the cell. Bilbo felt his heart lurch into a quick rhythm. Thorin was in there. At least, Bilbo could see a burly figure with a thick mane of dark hair. It had to be Thorin. He was lying on the floor.

“Thorin?” Bilbo called softly. He glanced up and down the passageway, but no one came to investigate the sound. Thorin didn’t move. Bilbo took a deep breath to steady himself. To come all this way only to find his friend dead – but no, Thorin shifted slightly. “Are you alive?” Bilbo whispered. Thorin didn’t respond. “Thorin?” He cast about for something to toss into the cell, and his fingers found a handful of pebbles on the floor. It was difficult to aim when he could hardly get his face as high as the window. The first pebble overshot the target, but the next one was dead-on, landing squarely on Thorin’s chest. That would wake him up. Because he was surely asleep, not injured or dying, and certainly not ignoring Bilbo. Thorin would not get away with ignoring his burglar.

The third pebble glanced off the dwarf’s arm. Bilbo watched Thorin open his eyes and look around. “Oh, thank heavens! I knew you were too tough for them to kill,” Bilbo said. He immediately bit his lip. _Rather showing your hand there, Mister Baggins._

“Leave me alone,” said Thorin, his voice low and deep.

Bilbo knelt again by the keyhole, momentarily confused and slightly hurt. But he rallied and said, “That’s very nice. D’you know how much trouble I’ve had, tracking you down? They’ve got all our friends locked up in different parts of this miserable cave.” He paused, but Thorin didn’t react. Something was not quite right here. “Could you come closer to the door? I’m trying to keep quiet so no one notices me. It’s a bit difficult when I have to shout across the room at you.”

When Thorin eventually came to the door, Bilbo was disturbed by his appearance. The dwarf’s face was gaunt. His eyes were flat blue, dull and dark. The lines around his eyes and mouth had deepened. Bilbo rubbed a hand across his own face miserably. Whatever hardships the rest of the Company had endured, Thorin had clearly suffered during his captivity. Bilbo found himself wishing they could go back to one of those uncomfortable nights when they’d kept watch together. At least Thorin had had some spark of expression then, though that expression was mainly irritation.

And at first, Thorin refused to believe that his friends were alive and well. Bilbo leaned his forehead against the cool stone of the doorjamb, pity welling in him like a fountain. Thorin must have spent a great deal of time alone in the darkness. Bilbo cleared his throat and hid his misery in brusqueness. Thorin would not appreciate pity. “Well, you’ll just have to take my word for it, I suppose. I’m…er, well, you see, I’ve got this…ring. And it makes me invisible. Look, I can’t talk for very long. The guards will be walking past in a few minutes. I just wanted to make sure you’re all right.”

When Thorin didn’t reply, Bilbo squinted through the keyhole for some indication of his friend’s state of mind. Thorin was close to the door – probably leaning against it. Bilbo could see a pale glitter of eyes, and the long, straight line of Thorin’s nose, but everything else was lost in shadows. “Thorin? Are you all right?”

Cloth brushed against cloth as Thorin inched closer. “Is it really you?”

There was a sound further down the passageway. Footsteps. “For the last time, yes!” Bilbo whispered sharply. He would have to leave, and quickly, or risk capture. Even being invisible, he felt much too vulnerable out here in the open.

“You’re…alive?”

Thorin’s obvious disbelief was heartbreaking. He’d given them all up for dead – his nephews, Bilbo, Dwalin, all of them. What must that have felt like? Bilbo shook his head and muttered, “Of course, though it’s not been easy to keep hidden from these confounded elves.” The footsteps were coming near. The stone passageway amplified the sound, making far-away things seem rather closer, but Bilbo knew he was running out of time. “The guards are coming. Thorin…” he added urgently, then trailed off. How to end that sentence? Every quick-blooded Tookish instinct was harrying him, but it was too much, too soon. He could say nothing of importance at this point. Thorin would need time just to get used to the idea that his friends and kinsmen were alive. That would be overwhelming enough, without Bilbo confessing that he—

“Bilbo, be careful,” Thorin whispered in a rough, low voice. Bilbo clutched tightly at the bead strung around his neck, closing his mouth on the words that wanted to escape.

“I’ll be back,” he said finally. Bright, clean torchlight was wavering just around the bend in the passageway, and he had left things much too late. Bilbo leapt to his feet and scurried away as quietly as he could. He blindly followed his feet to the armory. Hidden behind a rack of spears, with his breath slowly steadying in his lungs, Bilbo sat back and wondered what to do next.

 

The next night, he spent quite a long time huddled close to the keyhole, talking quietly with Thorin. Bilbo even went so far as to remove his ring, though the chance of being spotted by a guard made him terribly nervous.

Their conversation was as frustrating as it was enjoyable. Although “enjoyable” wasn’t exactly the right word, was it? Bilbo didn’t want to admit how desperately he missed Thorin; it made him feel like a dog that waits anxiously for its master’s return. But he couldn’t turn his mind away from it. He’d spent hours marveling over Thorin’s survival. That came up at the beginning of their conversation. “I must say, it was a real relief to find you here,” Bilbo said, glancing up at Thorin through the keyhole. “We were afraid we’d lost you.” He had to be guarded here. It would be frustratingly typical if he lost his head and blurted everything out in the heat of the moment. And that would ruin everything, the entire friendship and all their trust which Bilbo had cultivated as carefully as a rare flower.

“You may put your mind at rest, burglar,” Thorin was saying quietly. Bilbo smiled ruefully, though he didn’t much feel like it. Thorin made the epithet sound more like an endearment. But that was friendship for you. And they had both struggled with isolation and loneliness over the past few weeks; it was only natural that they would each cling to a friendly presence. “Now it’s your turn to ease my fears. How have you managed to stay hidden? Do the elves not suspect that you’re hiding in their midst?”

_Now it’s your turn to ease my fears._ Thorin feared for Bilbo’s safety? But of course – if Bilbo were captured, he would be imprisoned, and their slim chance of escape would vanish. “My magic ring keeps me well protected,” Bilbo said. He tried to keep his tone casual. “It’s blasted tricky keeping quiet all the time, though. I have to steal every bite of food, and I hardly dare to sleep, even tucked up in the darkest corners I can find. I’m like a burglar that can’t get away, but must go on miserably burgling the same house day after day.”

“Wait.” Thorin moved away from the keyhole. Bilbo instinctively craned to keep his friend in sight. “Can you reach the window?”

“Er, I think so,” said Bilbo. He stood on his toes and put his hand through the small hole in the door. He could reach as far as his elbow. Something was pressed into his palm – accompanied by the momentary warmth of Thorin’s rough fingers – and when he drew it out, he realized it was bread. His stomach gurgled appreciatively. “Thank you,” he muttered awkwardly. He shouldn’t accept it. Thorin needed it more than he did.

“Anytime,” said Thorin. “They feed me very well.” 

“But I can get food anytime. You’re a prisoner, you’ve only got as much food as they decide to give you.”

“I can easily spare it. Please, I owe you my life.”

Bilbo shook his head, muttering, “Stubborn.”

“Sounds rather like a certain hobbit of my acquaintance.”

Thorin’s gruff teasing made Bilbo grin, but his face was hot with embarrassment. He shouldn’t be swanning about like a lovesick tween. But it was difficult when Thorin was being so blasted _kind._ It should be enough to be friends. Thorin clearly did not have that many friends, and this sort of gentle, easy conversation – so common among hobbits – was lovely. It would have to be enough for Bilbo. “Do you want me to take any messages to any of the others? Perhaps your nephews?”

There was a long pause while Thorin thought. Bilbo picked at a hangnail and leaned his head against the door. No matter how he shifted, it was quite impossible to find a comfortable position. Not like all the times he had fallen asleep alongside Thorin, leaning into his friend’s solid warmth. The thought made heat rush back into his cheeks. He still couldn’t believe he’d had the nerve to do that so many times. Thorin must have gotten pretty well fed up with it.

“Tell them I am well. I’m relieved that they’re alive.”

That was it? Evidently, affection didn’t come easily to Thorin. Bilbo shrugged and said, “Well, I’d best be on my way. It’ll take me most of the night to relay that incredibly emotional, familial sentiment.” Perhaps he was pushing his luck with that one, though Thorin didn’t seem in the mood to get angry at a dry joke. He quickly slipped on his magic ring.

“Wait! Wait, please.”

Bilbo frowned and took off his ring. “What’s wrong?” It wasn’t like Thorin to sound so desperate.

He looked away, then met Bilbo’s eyes reluctantly. “When will you return?”

It was difficult for Bilbo to keep a pleased smile from spreading across his face. He tried to squash the hope that was rapidly unfurling in his chest. Thorin was just lonely. Of course he would be eager for company, even if it was just Bilbo. “I can come back tomorrow night. I miss our talks. It’s rather lonely, being invisible all the time.”

“Oh.” There was a pause, then Thorin added, “Well, I look forward to it.”

This was too much. Bilbo put on his ring to hide his expression. Lovesick tween, indeed. This was embarrassing. “The guards are coming,” he murmured. On the other side of the keyhole, Thorin looked disappointed. “I’m sorry. Tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow,” Thorin agreed.

When Bilbo was curled up safe in a dark corner of Thranduil’s library, he pulled the conversation apart in his head. He quite forgot to take Thorin’s message to Fíli and Kíli.

 

The next night proved to be one of the most dangerous he’d spent in Thranduil’s palace. After finding his way to Fíli’s and Kíli’s respective cells, and relaying their uncle’s brief message, Bilbo went to find Balin. The guards weren’t due to make their rounds for an hour or so. They would have plenty of time to chat, and Balin would gladly indulge Bilbo’s interest in dwarf culture.

But Bilbo had barely settled down to listen when he caught the faint sound of light footsteps. “What was that?” he whispered. Balin quieted, but his hearing was not as sensitive as a hobbit’s. Bilbo strained his eyes until they started to play tricks on him. At last, though, he realized that the passageway was growing lighter. “Guards. I’d better go. Take care, Balin.”

“And you,” muttered Balin.

Bilbo set off in the opposite direction, but rather than growing fainter, the light was becoming brighter with every step. For a moment he was confused. Then it dawned on him that guards were approaching from both directions. _You’re in a real fix now, Baggins!_ He dithered for a moment before flattening himself against the wall and resolving to take shallow, quiet breaths until the danger passed. He felt terribly exposed. Half a moment later, a pair of guards appeared around the bend in the passage. They marched smoothly – it was more of a glide, actually – past him without suspicion.

He let out a slow breath when they had passed out of sight. The other set of guards, coming in the opposite direction, would be coming past in a few moments. They must have changed their schedule. It might be that they suspected his presence. He would have to be much more careful if he valued his freedom. With that in mind, Bilbo set off again, trotting as quietly as he could to keep ahead of the next set of guards.

To be safe, he lay low for the rest of the night. He didn’t overhear anyone discussing strange noises or mysterious footsteps, but it didn’t hurt to be cautious. After some time in the armory, he was fortunate enough to gain entry to the pantry in the morning. The Elvenking’s pantry! That was a stroke of luck to balance his close call with the guards. Bilbo was able to slip inside while the cooks were preparing breakfast. What a marvelous opportunity! His mouth watered at the sight of roast fowl, blocks of cheese, bins of potatoes, and barrels of beer. One shelf was laden with row upon row of fresh bread. Heavy braids of garlic hung alongside bundles of rosemary, lavender, sage, and basil.

He tucked himself away in the corner with a small wheel of cheese and a loaf of bread. It was better than a feast. 

 

Bilbo stayed in the pantry all day, stealing quick naps and bits of food when he could. It didn’t seem like he could ever get quite enough, but by late afternoon he felt better rested and a bit less hungry than before. Elves came and went at meal-times. Bilbo kept quiet and still, wedged between a barrel and the wall. He was not discovered. The torches were extinguished at nightfall, and he was free to wander at will.

He made quick stops at his friends’ cells. It was impossible to stay for long. The guards made their rounds at irregular intervals – they’d definitely altered their schedule, and it was not at all to Bilbo’s convenience. The hobbit was forced to hide in a dusty, exposed corner for some hours. Finally, though, he managed to sneak away to the library, where a disused bookcase served nicely as a hiding-place.

Thorin was never far from his thoughts. That was frustrating. Firstly, it was entirely inappropriate; Bilbo was a respectable – well, formerly respectable – hobbit, but he was not ignorant of Thorin’s rank. Dwarves took that sort of thing very seriously. It was also inappropriate because they were friends. There was no room for this sort of romantic nonsense. And the thought of actually telling Thorin how he felt…well, it was enough to make Bilbo squirm uncomfortably in the silent library. He could just picture Thorin’s reaction. Disbelief, discomfort, and an awkward rejection were the most Bilbo could hope for; the worst would be if Thorin laughed at the prospect. No, it would be much safer for Bilbo to keep this ridiculous sentimentality to himself. He rubbed the bridge of his nose and sighed. It was for the best. He would not risk their friendship for some foolish daydream.

He spent the long, silent hours practicing his braiding.

 

That night, he found his way to Thorin’s cell. After silently watching the guard march past, Bilbo crouched by the keyhole and whispered the dwarf’s name.

“I didn’t think you would be here,” Thorin murmured.

Bilbo looked at the floor, guiltily remembering his extended stay in the pantry. “I am sorry, Thorin. There was a bit of bother the last few nights. I think the guards are changing their rotations. They nearly caught me outside Balin’s cell two nights ago.”

Thorin shook his head. The lines on his forehead deepened with concern, and he said, “Please take care. If you’re caught—“

“Then none of us will escape,” said Bilbo. Did Thorin think he had forgotten that?

“Your safety is more important to me,” Thorin corrected him, voice rough and low.

Bilbo didn’t know what to say. He could only stare through the keyhole, wondering how to react. Part of him wanted to believe that Thorin had…well… _feelings_ for him. But that was ridiculous. No, Thorin was merely concerned for his friend’s safety. That had to be it. After a moment, Thorin cleared his throat and said, “Would you like my bread?”

“Er…yes, thank you,” Bilbo said quickly. He took the bread when Thorin handed it through the window. Even after his pilfered meal in the pantry, he was still hungry.

They talked of different things after that. Thorin wanted to hear the story of his companions’ capture, and Bilbo was glad to share it. He didn’t like to remember the spiders. That had been a terrifying ordeal, and he was still amazed at his own role in it. Thorin listened attentively. After hearing Bilbo’s description of his own modest accomplishments – all right, perhaps they were a little impressive – Thorin shook his head and smiled. “Once again, you’ve shown that hobbits are not to be underestimated. I regret that I ever doubted you. I’d rather have you at my side in battle than an army of dwarf warriors.”

Bilbo pressed his hands to his extremely warm face. It was hard not to be smitten when Thorin acted like this. But he couldn’t allow his feelings to overwhelm him; it would ruin everything, and he valued their friendship too much. “Oh,” he finally said. He cleared his throat and tried to control himself. The rest of the story was quickly told, and Bilbo was brought up short by the recollection of Thorin’s absence from the group. “It was quite a shock,” he said softly. “We were certain that you’d been killed by the spiders. Things looked quite hopeless.” He smiled unhappily. “It was…awful.”

“I am sorry. I wish I’d been there.”

Bilbo shrugged. “It’s no good dwelling on it.” But he couldn’t help it. The desperate misery – the knowledge that his friend was lost and probably dead – it had been too awful. He’d slipped into despondency for some days, even as he hid and sneaked in Thranduil’s palace. Bilbo had come to rely on Thorin’s certainty and strength of will. Without that sense of purpose, and with the added confusion and danger of locating his surviving friends, Bilbo hadn’t known what to do with himself. The Shire was very far away now. He had rather lost any hope of seeing it again.

“I cannot tell you what it means to me that you all survived,” Thorin said, bringing Bilbo out of his reverie. “Once again, you’ve proven your quality. My sister-sons and my friends are alive thanks to you.”

Bilbo grinned. “Well, I expect you’ll find a way to repay me.” _Calm down, Bilbo. That was a bit too suggestive._

“Cheeky burglar,” Thorin murmured.

Bilbo chuckled and went on to finish the story of the Company’s capture and imprisonment. That brought him to another troubling prospect. They might all be alive and well, but there did not seem to be any way of escaping. “Thorin,” he said hesitantly.

“Yes?”

“I really don’t see how we’ll be able to escape. I’ve no way of getting hold of Gandalf, and you’re locked up as tight as the bark on a tree. And Thranduil’s doors are enchanted to keep you all inside.”

“We’ll think of something. Can you look for other ways out of the caves?”

“Yes, but how will I break you all out of your cells?” The prospect was overwhelming – he was one small, inept hobbit, and this whole business was entirely unfamiliar to him.

“We’ll worry about that when the time comes. For now, keep on your guard.”

Bilbo bit back a sarcastic response, merely saying, “I assure you, I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself.” And he was. He’d done for those spiders, and the trolls, and so far managed to keep hidden from Thranduil’s elves. All without the guidance of Thorin Know-It-All.

“I suppose you are, but that does very little to ease my mind.”

“You’re worse than a mother hen. Although I expect having Fíli and Kíli for nephews would make anyone anxious.”

“How are they?” Thorin shifted closer to the door, and Bilbo heard a renewed edge of anxiety in his voice.

“Well enough. They’re in separate cells.” And very annoyed about it.

Thorin grunted. “What about Balin?”

“He seems to be sustained by righteous anger and his absolute faith in your ability to get us out of this mess,” Bilbo said. He leaned his head against the door. If it weren’t for that barrier, he and Thorin might be leaning against each other like they had in the past. Talking quietly. Sharing warmth. Bilbo felt warmth rise in his cheeks again, and he said, “I’d best move along. The guards might come along at any time.”

“If you must.” Thorin didn’t sound happy about it.

After a moment, Bilbo sighed and said, “I wish Gandalf were here. He would get us out of this mess.” It seemed as if Gandalf could fix any mess and resolve any difficulty, when he wasn’t busy creating them.

“I suppose you wish you were safe at home in the Shire,” Thorin said.

Bilbo felt his fingers clench, but he kept his voice steady. “I suppose I do. But I have a duty to rescue you, you…you ass. I signed on for the entire journey, and I refuse to give up just because things look utterly hopeless.” 

“I’m sorry. That was unfair,” Thorin said quietly.

Bilbo rubbed the back of his neck. The problem with Thorin was that he didn’t _think_ before he said things. “We’re both tired. Don’t let it trouble you.”

Thorin didn’t say anything for a moment, but he seemed to move closer to the keyhole. “Did you braid your hair?”

“Oh, that. Er. Yes.” Bilbo tried to will his heart to a steadier pace. He’d spent the entire day in the library practicing, and finally made a respectable braid. Carefully taking the golden bead from its string around his neck, he’d fastened it to the end of the short braid, just behind his ear. It seemed like a safe enough spot, but he couldn’t stop himself from touching it, just to make sure it was still there. His fingers smoothed over the engraved metal in a familiar, comforting movement. It felt good to wear it like an actual dwarf would – like he was finally doing justice to the honor the bead was meant to convey. 

“It suits you,” Thorin said after a long moment. “I am honored.”

Bilbo coughed and said, “Well, I’ve had plenty of time to practice braiding.” That didn’t come out quite right. Too casual, as if he didn’t care whether the bead was around his neck or in his hair. To actually wear it in his hair seemed far more significant, somehow.

“Thank you for wearing it. Though I’m rather afraid that if Thranduil’s guards catch you, you’ll immediately be recognized as a dwarf-friend and a spy.”

“Well, I may be a burglar, but I’m not disloyal. But this is twice I’ve saved your skin, Master Oakenshield, and once for each of your friends. If we survive, I expect I’ll most likely be reimbursed entirely in beads.” That made Thorin chuckle. Good. It was meant to.

“Perhaps you should go. If the guards catch you, Thranduil’s wrath will be terrible.”

“Mm, I don’t doubt it.” But he made no move to put on his ring. It was nicer to sit by the keyhole, head resting on the heavy door. They sat together in silence for a while. Bilbo moved his fingers repetitively over the bead. “Did you make it yourself?”

“What?”

“Sorry, I meant the bead. Did you make it yourself?”

“Oh.” After a moment, Thorin said, “No. My father gave it to me. When I was young.”

Bilbo wasn’t sure what to say. “Oh.” That added a new dimension to things. “Was it a coming-of-age gift?”

“Yes,” said Thorin slowly. “How did you know that?”

“Balin is a very knowledgeable teacher of dwarf culture.”

“Ah.” Thorin didn’t say anything, and Bilbo didn’t press the conversation. He wasn’t particularly cosmopolitan, but he knew a thing or two about families. This matter was clearly a sore spot for Thorin.

“Well. I think I rather prefer your tradition. When I came of age, my father gave me a wheelbarrow and a new pipe.”

Thorin chuckled, and Bilbo smiled, feeling somewhat encouraged. He would have said more, but footsteps in the corridor cut him off. “I have to go,” Bilbo whispered as he put his ring on. He lingered at the keyhole. “Will you be all right?”

“I’m more concerned for you. Don’t let them catch you.”

“I’m always careful. I’ll be back.” Bilbo hurried away. The armory would be a good place to spend the rest of the night. He found his way there with little difficulty, and curled up under a table, resigned to another long, cold, hungry night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Does anyone have any thoughts on this chapter? The fic's gotten 800+ views in the few days since I posted this chapter, but no one has commented, which makes me worry a little. Do you guys dislike it? I'm not planning to do another chapter in Bilbo's perspective, if that makes anyone feel better. But any input -- on characterization, pacing, imagery, even grammar & punctuation -- would be really awesome!


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